


Remaining Grace

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Apocalypse, Badass!Cas, Character Death, Codependency, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, PTSD!Dean, Post-Season 5, Pre-Slash, Profound Bond, Protective Dean Winchester, Robo-Sam, Romance, Season 6 Rewrite, Slash, Soulless!Sam, TW: Withdrawal, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Wings, tw: alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 109,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's missing his soul, Castiel has a pissy archangelic nemesis, and Dean wonders if he'll be spending the rest of his life making sure the Apocalypse doesn't go ahead as scheduled. Still, though. He's happy to see Cas. Indiana wasn't really working out.</p><p>Alternate season 6, in a universe where Castiel made a different choice, and things snowball from that point forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cicero, Indiana

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: There's some violence in this fic (and some torture), but it isn't too gratuitous, and each chapter has the appropriate heads-up for where stuff like that is/what one should skip.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel, Raphael's ultimatum hanging over his head, goes to Dean for help.

How could Castiel ask him for more?  
  
The Righteous Man had done everything, given up everything, and he had the chance to quietly exist for another thirty or forty years: a life without hunting, a peaceful life, a normal life, and a natural, late death. How could Castiel ask anything of him, especially with the reality of his awful failure twisting within him?  
  
But Dean’s shoulders suddenly stiffened in the act of raking leaves. His head tipped to the side, as though he was listening hard for movement.  
  
“Cas?” he asked, his voice gruff. “You there?” He turned to look behind him, directly at where Castiel stood. It was an inane nickname, Castiel thought, but it warmed his being to hear it; it warmed him, too, to see the faint flicker of hope in Dean’s green eyes, the temporarily softening lines in Dean’s face.  
  
Castiel didn’t choose to appear to Dean; it was an impulsive act, less of a choice and more of a longing that manifested to reality. Dean’s eyes widened, and something that Castiel knew was _relief_ appeared on his features, saturating them painfully for a moment before a strange smile broke on his lips.  
  
“I knew it,” he said hoarsely, already striding forward, his arms stretching out. Castiel remembered their last encounter, fleetingly, and remembered that Dean was angry, but not with him, just angry, angry, angry—Dean was always angry—but not now, not when his arms closed heavily, staccato, around Castiel. “I knew I heard you, man,” he said, voice muffled by Castiel’s shoulder.  
  
This unnerved Castiel, who had only rarely been touched by Dean, who was very particular about his personal space. This was doubly unnerving because, no matter how much Castiel longed to see Dean, he had been fairly convinced that Dean would not want to see him. Dean was supposed to be out. Retired. Done. Dean was supposed to be living—what had the Winchesters always called it? An _apple pie life_. But Dean was relieved to see him, and Castiel remembered Dean’s mind, the idea that lingered there: a hunter is never done.  
  
Dean pulled back from him to clap a hand on his shoulder, just when Castiel remembered that he was supposed to put his arms around Dean and awkwardly half-raised them to do so. Dean laughed heartily. “Look, man, I know your people skills aren’t the best, but…” The smile melted from his features as he looked into Castiel’s face properly for the first time. “Cas?” he asked uncertainly.  
  
Castiel’s hands dropped back to his sides, useless, but Dean’s hand remained on his shoulder, the warmth of it seeping through his trench coat and suit jacket and shirt. It felt like salvation. Castiel felt weak for interrupting his old friend’s new life, but Dean would know what to do. And Dean would forgive him.  
  
“Hello, Dean,” he said finally.  
  
“Yeah, Cas. Hey. Hello. What’s wrong?” Dean demanded, his voice rough and urgent, and Castiel nearly smiled, because Dean still knew him better than anyone or anything. Dean looked past the impassive features of the vessel and saw Castiel’s true unease with one, simple look. It was remarkable, really, how well Dean could read him. Castiel often wondered if it was because of Hell.  
  
“I’m in trouble, Dean,” he said at last, and guilt and fear rent through him, just for a moment, before he buried those confused and terrifying emotions again. “I’ve made a mistake.”  
  
Dean’s features were already smoothing and hardening, crisis-mode on, ready to handle whatever it was. One man. One human. Ready to handle the missteps of an angel. Castiel had known he would react this way. Dean was reliable. Dean was solid. Dean was his friend, and Castiel felt relief just being here.  
  
“I thought the Apocalypse was over,” Dean said, with the weary, half-hearted note in his voice that meant he was— _joking_ , Castiel thought.  
  
“A faction of the Host has decided that it must be restarted,” Castiel told him, and Dean stared back at him, horror flooding his green eyes.  
  
“They can’t,” Dean protested. “Lucifer and Michael are locked in the box. Without them, no Apocalypse.”  
  
“They mean to break Lucifer and Michael out of the cage.”  
  
“Son of a bitch,” Dean exploded, casting a glare skyward.  
  
“They do not yet know how to re-open it,” Castiel said, though it was little consolation; it had been done once, and it could be done again, perhaps more easily this time. “Raphael is leading them,” he added.  
  
Dean rubbed his hand—the one that was not on Castiel’s shoulder, because that hand was still there, strong, firm, strangely comforting—over his mouth, trying to get his bearings. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. They can’t do that. They can’t be _allowed_ to do that.” His gaze rose to meet Castiel’s. “Thought dear old dad brought you back better than ever. Didn’t he think this might happen? Give you the juice to take them?”  
  
Castiel’s eyes fell to Dean’s shirt. “Improved, yes. With enough power to win a fight with Raphael…no. I have been told that I will swear allegiance to him, or I will die.”  
  
“Well,” Dean said forcefully, squeezing Castiel’s shoulder. “You will not do _either_ of those things, you got me?”  
  
Castiel was not sure how he could truly stop himself dying—again—but he nodded.  
  
“We’re going to see Bobby,” Dean said, “and we’ll figure this out. How much time do we have?”  
  
“Tomorrow,” Castiel said. “The Holy Host has been called to assemble tomorrow.”  
  
Dean’s lip trembled, just barely noticeable, before it quirked, momentarily, into a forced smile. “Left it a little late, didn’t you?”  
  
“Angels move quickly,” Castiel replied. “My…conversation…with Raphael was five minutes ago.”  
  
Dean’s hand fell. Castiel immediately missed its reassurance on his shoulder. “Okay,” he muttered. “Okay. We’re gonna fix this. Give me five minutes to say goodbye to Lisa and Ben.”  
  
“Dean,” Castiel said, eyes lifting, finally, to Dean’s face. “I am sorry.”  
  
A flicker of confusion crossed Dean’s face. “Sorry? For what, Cas?”  
  
“For bringing this...problem...to you,” he replied honestly, sadly. “I wish I did not require your assistance. You are supposed to be done. I regret asking more of you.”  
  
“Don’t.” Dean stabbed a finger into Castiel’s chest, and the angel felt the raw insistence behind it. “Cas, you’ve got a problem, I’m here to help. That’s the way it works.”  
  
Castiel tilted his head, puzzled. “The way what works?”  
  
Dean shook his head, gripped the beige trench coat, and straightened it with a jerk. “Friends, you mook,” he growled. “You raised me from Hell, rebelled for me, and died for me twice. I think I can handle one pissy archangel.”  
  
“There’s something else,” Castiel said, the words falling from his lips like a confession.  
  
“One pissy archangel, and…?”  
  
“Sam. It’s Sam.”  
  
Dean stilled; the hardness in his face tightened. “What about Sam?”  
  
Castiel would beg for forgiveness, if that was the result of this conversation. He deserved nothing more. “I tried to get Sam out of Lucifer’s cage,” he said. “I knew…what it would mean to you…but I failed, Dean. I raised him, but he isn’t…his soul is still in the cage. I was...arrogant...to believe that I could raise him properly.”  
  
Dean blinked once, then blinked again, and Castiel allowed himself to be saturated in Dean’s pain, anguish, guilt, though it rent his own being in two; his Grace tremored with it.  
  
“Sam is topside,” Dean said, his voice taut, and Castiel’s own guilt threatened to swallow him whole.  
  
“Yes and no,” Castiel replied.  
  
Dean stared at him for a moment, lost: it was the expression he wore when he first met Castiel, when the angel first pried him from the rack. But as then, so now, his expression hardened, transformed, and Castiel’s respect for him bordered on reverence. Dean Winchester always got up, no matter what leveled him. He always rose again.  
  
“You will fill me in on the way,” he said now, staring hard at Castiel, and it was unmistakably an order, one that Castiel would obey unquestioningly. “And we are _not flying_. Now just...go to the garage, sit in the Impala, and wait for me. I’ll be there in five minutes.”  
  
“I am sorry, Dean,” Castiel said again, because for now, the apology was all he had to offer.  
  
Dean rested his hands on the angel’s shoulders, gripped him tight. Castiel could feel Dean shaking. “I’m not sayin’ I’m not angry,” he said, in a rough and strained voice that gave that much away on its own. “But you tried, Cas, and I know...I know you meant well.” He released Castiel and turned toward the house. “We will fix this,” he said, and Castiel watched his back straighten with purpose, his exhaustion bury itself deep. “Five minutes.”  
  
“Thank you,” Castiel said quietly, but Dean was already out of earshot.


	2. Scrambling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That can't be a good omen. I hope your taste in music is just plain random and not intuitive."

His goodbyes to Lisa and Ben were a blur. He’d barely been better than a ghost in their house for the last several weeks: drinking too much, sleeping too little, inhabiting the spare bedroom and spending all his energy on preventing himself from looking for a way to break Sam out of Hell, or at least looking for a hunt. Half a dozen times, he’d read the newspaper and been halfway to the garage before he remembered that he didn’t have a partner anymore, and he’d promised to stop hunting.  
  
He had tried—real hard, too—to keep himself from praying to Cas because he’d been too different, too distant, after the horrible finality of that last confrontation, and then he’d left. Poof. Gone. Dean still felt blind with rage when he thought of that. After all he’d been through with the angel, after all the humanity he’d seen soaking into Cas’s being, it just seemed to evaporate right there in the Impala.  
  
But he seemed different now. Himself again, somehow. Maybe it had just been a brief side effect of his second death in as many years. Dean gripped the garage door and shut it, hard, to control the shiver that went through him. _For you_ , and the sneer in his head sounded like Alastair; _always for you_ , and Dean strode with purpose from the door, leaving behind his shot at normal.  
  
The angel was not in the garage. The tarp over his Impala was unmoved, and Dean felt a horrible sense of loss, as if perhaps his conversation with Cas had been in his imagination, as if his mind had dreamed the whole thing up to get him out of Indiana. What a stupid, sorry thing that would be. _Sorry, Sam,_ he thought. _Can’t keep my promises when there’s a pissy archangel trying to undo all our hard work…_  
  
He yanked the tarp off his Impala and nearly jumped; Cas was already inside, sitting shotgun, utterly still, his head bent. Dean threw his duffel in the backseat and fell behind the steering wheel, then looked at Cas. For once, Cas wasn’t staring at him in that uncomfortable way of his. He seemed afraid to even look at Dean, so for once, Dean looked at him instead.  
  
Cas was paler than usual, his face standing out starkly against his shock of nearly-black hair, his deep blue eyes downcast, his shoulders slumped. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes seemed deeper, his perpetual five o’clock shadow more haggard, and the hair that had become tame over the last year stuck up the same way it had when he’d strolled into that barn. Dean saw a faint smudge of red at the corner of his mouth, something that might be blood.  
  
“It wasn’t much of a conversation, huh?” he asked, turning around in his seat to back the Impala out of the garage.  
  
Cas looked up from his contemplation of his hands, but stared straight ahead rather than look at Dean. “No,” he answered simply.  
  
God, he’d missed that voice. Deep, gravelly, rough, like his vessel’s vocal cords strained to handle the raw power of the angel trapped inside. He’d heard it, now and then, in his nightmares the last few weeks, a wordless roar that tore him from the rack where he tortured John, his eyes occasionally yellow with Azazel; Ellen, her lips closed forever tight on a scream; Jo, her doe eyes streaming with tears as her blond hair soaked through with her blood; Bobby, his teeth locked until Dean cut them out; Sam, Lucifer playing in his torment, and Castiel burned them all out with a light that left him blind and gasping, soaked with sweat and tangled in the sheets of Lisa’s spare room, wishing dawn wasn’t so far off. More than that, though, wishing he could fall to his knees and beg Cas to save him, one more time.  
  
Dean guided the Impala out of town, mentally charting how long it would take to reach Bobby’s. “Okay, Cas,” he said, when they had reached the city’s limit and the silence had gone too long. “Talk to me. I don’t think you have a lot of time.”  
  
Cas finally looked at him, and Dean, in a brief glance, spotted the devastation that the angel shouldn’t feel. Angels didn’t _feel_ , period, but Dean had a feeling that Castiel had spent too long on Earth, had grown too close to humanity, had been resurrected too many times and something about the fabric of his being had been altered, as if by choosing _free will_ Cas also chose _emotions_.  
  
“Freeing Sam was the first thing I set out to do,” Cas said; there was a half-mournful sound to his low-pitched voice. “I’m not sure why I expected to achieve the impossible. Perhaps because I pulled you out of Hell when I was much less than I am now.”  
  
Dean glanced at Cas again, frowning. “Hold on. Explain further.”  
  
Cas tilted his head to the side, just slightly, his eyes narrowing by a fraction, curious, contemplating: the Cas that Dean knew best. Thousands, millions of years of history, and he was stumped by minor conversational deviations. Dean had to lock his jaw against the smile that threatened to overcome his face, because he shouldn’t be so deliriously happy to see that, not now. Things were falling apart, and the angel made it seem to inconsequential with an expression or a word.  
  
It made him nervous, the kind of nervous he’d been since Zachariah pushed him forward and made him see what Castiel would become because of him. Because of Dean.  
  
“I don’t understand,” Cas confessed, apologetic, and Dean snapped back to the present.  
  
“You were much less _what_ when you pulled me out of Hell?” he said.  
  
Understanding touched Cas’s features. “Less powerful,” he explained. “I was a lower soldier in the garrison. Young. They were surprised—and displeased—when I was the one who found you."  
  
Dean had known Cas for two years; how had he not heard this story before? “You weren’t the only one looking?” he asked.  
  
“No,” Cas said. “My entire garrison went to Hell to find you, after the garrison before ours was wiped out.”  
  
Dean took a moment to let that sink in. “Okay,” he said finally. “So you’re…more powerful…now? How does that even work?”  
  
He felt Cas looking at him. “You are curious about how I raised you. I’ve never told you.”  
  
“You can tell me all about it later,” Dean snapped. “We’re running out of time, here. Back to Sam.”  
  
Cas flinched, a bare movement of facial expression, hardly noticeable, but on the angel’s once-always-impassive face, Dean noticed.  
  
“My power now does not seem to be connected to Heaven,” he said, answering Dean’s question. “No matter what my decisions, I retain my capabilities. That was not the case before.” He paused. “I have yet to test their limits, but I do know that I am still woefully underpowered in battle. I am not an archangel.”  
  
“Well,” Dean muttered, “it’s still something. No fear of straining your angel-mojo this time around, as long as you don’t get too close to that brother of yours.” When Cas didn’t respond, he added, “So, Hell.”  
  
“Weeks ago, I still thought my abilities would be enough to raise Sam, whole and relatively undamaged,” Cas continued. “Relatively speaking, I suppose, an argument could be made that that is the case. He is without his soul, which would have endured the most mutilation from his brief time in Hell.”  
  
“So Sam is…out there,” Dean said. His chest constricted; it was suddenly hard to breathe. “Walking and talking.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“But his soul is still downstairs.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What does that…” Dean, who had always struggled with the concept of souls, anyway, struggled with this. “What does that mean, exactly?”  
  
Cas looked at him, eyes momentarily full of sympathy and remorse before the expression vanished. “He retains all of your brother’s memories, all of his intellect, all of his capabilities,” he explained. “But he lacks…well, simply put, he feels nothing. Emotions are, by and large, tied to souls. His ability for human connectivity is contingent upon a soul. He has...no loyalties. No attachments. And he can tell that something is wrong,” he added in a mutter. “Sam is very smart. He knows he should feel...something. Something more than he does.”  
  
“Where is he?”  
  
“Hunting. He is tracking a Shapeshifter in Pennsylvania.”  
  
Pennsylvania was behind them, Dean thought, his hands already itching to turn the car around.  
  
“You want to see him,” Cas said.  
  
“Does he know that you raised him?”  
  
Cas shook his head. “No. I have been unable to answer his prayers; the conflict in Heaven was too great to step away from.”  
  
“Okay,” Dean muttered. “Well, in theory, Sam is not the most pressing problem right now.”  
  
Cas tilted his head, surprise flitting across his features. “He isn’t?”  
  
Dean gave the angel a disbelieving look. “Sam will keep.” Dean hoped that he was right, that Sam could handle a simple hunt without a soul and that his soul wouldn’t endure significantly more damage from a night or two extra in the cage. “You, on the other hand, are going to be a dead man…angel…soon. So what happened?”  
  
“I returned to Heaven, after failing to resurrect Sam,” Cas continued. “I tried to impress upon the angels awed by my return that God wants them to have freedom. Free will.”  
  
Dean snorted. Cas’s morose expression was enough to tell him how that went. “They’re having a hard time with it, right?”  
  
“I have made little progress,” Cas admitted. “They do not have my advantage, small though it is. It is hard to comprehend free will when you have been an obedient soldier for your entire, substantial life.”  
  
“Advantage?” Dean repeated.  
  
A strange, sad smile turned up one corner of Cas’s mouth. “I have spent more time on Earth, in direct contact with humans, than most angels in existence,” he said. “I understand now why our orders have often strictly enforced our distance from your kind. It did not take long for me to begin to express emotion after meeting you. Free will appears to hinge on that—on emotion—in some way. Or perhaps emotion merely makes free will easier to understand. It is unclear.”  
  
“I thought emotion came from a soul. Which, correct me if I’m wrong, you don’t have.”  
  
Castiel flinched at that, and Dean frowned, watching the momentary agony on his face before it vanished again. “You’re right,” Cas replied easily. “But I do have my Grace, and it is possible that they are similar enough.” He paused, a beat too long, and Dean wondered what that pain had been about, opened his mouth to ask when Cas plunge onward. “I was allowed to keep talking to the angels, for a time. And then Raphael summoned me. He is the remaining archangel, with Gabriel dead and Michael caged, and it is natural that control of the Holy Host would fall to him. It is his desire to free Michael and Lucifer and resume the Apocalypse, with the power of the entire Host at his back.”  
  
“Why?” Dean cut in, because his disbelief at this insanity had finally bubbled up. “What’s the damn point?”  
  
“I believe that Raphael, too, has begun to manifest emotions,” Cas answered quietly. “They are not in sympathy with mine. He is…jealous…of humanity’s profound place in our Father’s eyes. He longs for the battle that will annihilate God’s most loved creations. It is certainly in keeping with his behavior over the last year.”  
  
“Daddy issues,” Dean muttered furiously, wondering if he could stay on the highway while pounding his head against the steering wheel. “It’s always daddy issues.” Ignoring Cas’s puzzled look, he pressed on. “I’m guessing you weren’t going to take that lying down.”  
  
“I told him that the angels would stop him,” Cas agreed. “When he reminded me that they are not adjusting well to free will—that they would gladly fall in line with someone who gave orders—I said that I would stop him. Unfortunately, this was unduly prideful. Raphael still has a great deal more power than I do.”  
  
“So he does have authority to kill you.” Dean’s heart sank. “No one’s going to protest.”  
  
Cas shrugged. “They might protest initially. No one is going to stand in Raphael’s way for long, though.”  
  
“What happens if you pledge allegiance to him?”  
  
Cas gave him a sharp look. “No, Dean. I cannot infiltrate Heaven the way you are imagining. They will know where my true loyalties lie.” Something dark, nearly afraid, crossed his features before it passed. “They would just...rehabilitate me again. More effectively, I imagine.”  
  
“All right, all right,” Dean backpedaled. “What would buy us more time? Could you get enough angels on your side to fight him?”  
  
“You’re talking about a civil war. A civil war in _Heaven_. It has not been done since Lucifer.” Cas sounded mildly repulsed by the mere thought.  
  
“It could be, though. Could you get enough angels to make him think twice about attacking you?”  
  
Cas clearly didn’t like the sound of this, but he relented. “Possibly,” he murmured.  
  
“They want a leader, so lead them,” Dean said, and his heart raced, and this was all bigger than him, grander, more horrible, and what it felt like came back in a sickening rush—the feeling of _powerlessness_. “It’ll buy us more time. Ultimately, though, Cas, we’re gonna have to take out Raphael.”  
  
“I know,” Cas answered, and for once, his low-pitched voice sounded terribly, horribly small. “I just don’t know how.”  
  
“We’ll figure it out,” Dean said bracingly. “We’ll figure it out, Cas. But you’ve gotta start making allies, now. It’s a long drive to Bobby’s and we don’t have that much time. Will you be able to find me on the road again? Wait,” he interrupted himself, frowning. “How did you find me earlier?”  
  
Cas raised an eyebrow. “I knew where you would be, Dean. The Enochian on your ribs still conceals you, but there were a limited number of locations to search.”  
  
“Oh,” Dean said, placated. “Well…good. As long as none of your frat brothers can find me.”  
  
Cas smiled again, that strange, sad little smile, and reached out to lightly rest a hand on Dean’s shoulder. The gesture was strangely soothing, almost calming. “I will have to call in order to find you, but you are safer this way. I will return soon.”  
  
Then he was gone in a rustling of feathers and barely-there breeze, and Dean was alone on the open highway with his thoughts, thoughts that were now reeling and pitching and nauseating. He always landed on his feet when things like this happened, always landed on his feet, but the turmoil was still there: he was torn between his duty and his family, torn between the bigger picture and the thing that screamed to be fixed, and he had already made his choice to put off Sam, but he felt sick when he thought of it and sick when he thought of a death sentence looming over Cas’s head and sick when he thought of the mess they were in, trying to protect this _more of the same_ that was hardly worth protecting, all these people just squabbling and hurting and living—  
  
He cut off the panic in his head by digging for his phone. He’d made his choice, and there was nothing left but to follow through, and Sam could wait. This was Sam’s decision, he reminded himself, and the shell of his brother being topside didn’t change that. He tried to convince himself, and if he didn’t succeed then at least no one would have to know.  
  
“Bobby,” he said, his voice bleak even to his own ears. “I’m headed your way. We have a problem.”  
  
  
  
Dean was burning through Iowa when Castiel found him again. “I’m on the 80, about 60 miles west of Des Moines,” Dean said, and Castiel flew, scouting for the Impala’s headlights before dropping into the car.  
  
His eyes were red-rimmed, the shadows beneath them deep, but he didn’t jump when Castiel appeared beside him; he merely glanced sideways, nodded, and turned back to the highway. Castiel thought he glimpsed the vague glow of orange—Omaha—on the horizon ahead of them, but otherwise, it was all velvet black, the headlights spotlighting corn stalks as they sped past.  
  
“You haven’t stopped,” Castiel observed, feeling a flicker of concern.  
  
“Gassed up back in Des Moines,” Dean replied. “I’m slower than you, but I do feel a certain sense of urgency, Cas.”  
  
Castiel flew again, taking Dean’s empty coffee thermos with him, and landed in a beat-up diner. The coffee was fresh enough. Castiel filled the mug, ignored the startled yelp of a waitress, and returned to the Impala. He held out the thermos to Dean, hoping the hunter would accept it as a gesture of silent support and yet another apology rather than throwing it back in his face.  
  
“Is that coffee?” Dean asked, surprised and a little amused.  
  
“Yes. I thought—”  
  
“Thanks, Cas,” Dean interrupted, grabbing the thermos and slurping down the first quarter of the container. “Where the hell did you go to get this?”  
  
“A diner in Des Moines,” Castiel replied. “I think I frightened a waitress.”  
  
Dean chuckled and replaced the thermos in a cup holder. “Can’t imagine why. I’ve got a few hours to go before I’m at Bobby’s. He’s digging up some lore on archangels in the meantime.” Castiel heard the unspoken fear— _don’t know what good it’s gonna do, we’ve never figured out how to kill them before, this is more of the same all over again_ —and, taking the cue from Dean, ignored it. “Status report on your end?” Dean asked.  
  
“There are a number of angels willing to stand against Raphael,” he answered, watching the stars slide slowly by. “A surprising number.”  
  
Dean’s eyebrows drew together. “Not really surprising, Cas. God didn’t raise Raphael from the dead. You, on the other hand…might seem to them like God’s on your side, not Raphael’s.”  
  
“Regardless, it is a risk to them if Raphael can overcome our forces. For the moment, though, I believe it has created enough of a distraction. When there is a division like this in the Host, no one angel controls anything. Raphael no longer has the power to cut angels off from Heaven. It is…strange.”  
  
“Good, you mean,” Dean said, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling as he tried a smile. “You mean good, Cas. You don’t have to fall in line with Mr. Knocks-Out-Entire-Eastern-Seaboard, and you get to live. Good news.”  
  
“It won’t last,” Castiel warned. “He’s sure to engage us in battle soon. With both our forces diminishing, it will ultimately come back to brute force from Raphael.”  
  
“A little optimism, Cas,” Dean growled. “At least now we’ve got more than sixteen hours.” At Castiel’s silence, he huffed and continued. “Bobby’s doing research. We’ll figure it out, I promise. We’ve been up against worse odds.”  
  
Castiel remembered worse. No allies save the Winchester boys and an old drunk and an angel-turned-human, and they’d done all right, then. But Castiel suddenly felt so old, and so tired, and his life before all this seemed easy. Dull, even. But he had descended into Hell and laid hands on Dean Winchester’s soul and nothing had been the same since. Before Dean, After Dean. They were very different times for Castiel. He remembered nothing particularly important Before Dean, nothing truly worthy of noting. Existence had been so unremarkable before he held this man’s broken, determined soul in his hands.  
  
“Yes,” Castiel agreed at last. “I suppose so.”  
  
“I know it isn’t easy,” Dean relented, and Castiel felt his friend’s guilt move within him like a slow, deadly toxin. “I bet sometimes you wish you hadn’t found me, huh? Your life would be a lot simpler. No doubt, no rebellion…”  
  
“No, Dean,” Castiel said, his voice low and tight. “I never wish that.” He knew what anger felt like; he was bad at controlling it, this hot, fierce feeling of blood pounding in his ears. It had once led him to beat Dean within an inch of his life. He tried not to remember that day, but sometimes Dean’s pleas echoed in his mind.  
  
He felt it, Dean’s surprise, Dean’s unease, Dean’s disbelief, the thing that Castiel had always seen in him— _you don’t think you deserve to be saved_.  
  
“I went to Hell on Heaven’s orders, knowing that I might die there,” Castiel said, staring straight ahead at the empty highway. “I remade you, piece for piece, but not nearly so dramatically as you eventually remade me. I do not regret for a moment finding you in Hell, Dean. You have been pivotal. And you deserved to be saved.”  
  
“Don’t you go disappearing on me,” Dean interrupted, glancing sideways at the angel.  
  
Puzzled, Castiel stared back. “I don’t understand.”  
  
“You always leave after you say important stuff. Just…just don’t, okay?”  
  
Castiel tilted his head, watching Dean, and felt his discomfort and worry, the vague feelings of concern and loneliness that pumped sluggishly through him with every beat of his heart. “I’ll stay,” he said, and felt Dean sag with relief against the leather of the Impala. “You’re worried that you are imagining me,” he added.  
  
“I haven’t seen you in a month, Cas. And I was going so nuts to get out of Indiana, seems like the kinda thing my brain would pull.” Dean’s mouth was set in an unhappy line.  
  
“You did not seem…happy…there.”  
  
Dean’s green eyes were clouded, his hands tight on the steering wheel. “Maybe I could have been,” he said roughly. “Someday. I used to think they were all I wanted, you know? A normal life, a normal job, girl to come home to, kid to play ball with…but it was so dull. It felt so empty. Like life was just over, and I didn’t have a purpose anymore.” He paused, then continued, more quietly, a little calmer, “Ben was the best part. Just doing kid stuff with him made it easy to forget for a while. Made me happy. But it wasn’t enough. I’m a hunter. I know Sam wanted me to just be normal, but I can’t. That was Sam’s thing. He was good at normal. I suck at it. It doesn’t make me happy.”  
  
Castiel considered that, wanting to soothe the long line of tension that had already reappeared along Dean’s spine. “Are you ever happy?” Castiel asked, though he thought he knew the answer.  
  
Dean glanced sideways at him; a muscle in his jaw twitched; for a fleeting instant, the corner of his mouth might have ticked up. “Sometimes,” he said at last, and when Castiel opened his mouth to ask for further elaboration, Dean quickly added, “and I don’t want to talk about it. No chick flick moments, dude.”  
  
Castiel frowned at him, but Dean just rustled around with one hand under his seat, then threw the battered box he’d dug out at the angel. “Pick something,” he said. “I wouldn’t usually do this, but I can’t think of a damn thing I want to listen to right now, so you might as well start cultivating your own tastes during the next two hours.”  
  
Puzzled, Castiel stared down at the box in his hands. It rustled with old tapes, worn with age, bearing neat labels. He glanced at Dean, hoping he would change his mind and choose instead, but his eyes were already back on the highway without seeing it, his mind swimming with other thoughts. With a feeling of resignation, Castiel began sifting through the tapes.  
  
They all looked similar. He knew that the album names and bands were different, but apart from that, he had no idea what he would like, and for the moment, couldn’t even remember the names of any bands that Dean played often. He chose at random, digging a tape from the very bottom of the box, and after working out how to fit it in the slot beneath the radio, pushed it in.  
  
Dean glanced at the radio, a flicker of surprise interrupting his buzzing thoughts, as the music ground to life. “That can’t be a good omen,” he muttered.  
  
“ _I see the bad moon arising_ ,” the tape sang. “ _I see trouble on the way_.”  
  
“I hope your choice in music is just plain random and not intuitive,” Dean growled.  
  
Credence Clearwater Revival followed them north.  
  
  
  
The sun was rising as they pulled into Singer Salvage Yard. Bobby’s voice called from the den. They let themselves in.  
  
Bobby and Dean took one another in for a long moment before the older hunter moved forward to hug Dean, hard. They had gone much longer without seeing one another, Castiel knew, but everything changed when you didn’t expect to see someone ever again and they ended up on your doorstep soon after anyway. He felt Dean’s tension drain into mindless, boneless relief, not happiness but a kind of comfort anyway.  
  
Dean had so rarely felt that with John, and Castiel could feel his guilt over even that, something so small, some emotion that he couldn’t control.  
  
“I hoped you were out for good, but I can’t say I’m not happy to see you,” Bobby said, drawing back from Dean.  
  
Dean smiled, and though it didn’t reach his eyes, it was genuine enough. “What, Garth gettin’ on your nerves?”  
  
Bobby rolled his eyes and clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Best not mention Garth, or the idgit’ll call and get mixed up in this.” His eyes passed from Dean to Castiel, who hovered well away from them, remaining quiet and unobtrusive. “Cas.”  
  
Castiel inclined his head, his body obeying with respect that his mind still sometimes insisted he didn’t owe any human, but the truth of the matter was that Bobby commanded it, because Bobby would always see him the way he’d been: weak, sapped of all his power, human and whining about it, and he rated no higher than a young and inexperienced hunter in the old man’s eyes. Castiel gleaned some strange pleasure from this, to be included in the hierarchy of the humans he loved.  
  
“Bobby,” he returned. “It’s good to see you.”  
  
“Thanks,” Bobby said gruffly, unexpectedly, and moved from Dean to rest a hand briefly on Castiel’s shoulder. “For waking me up. Wasn’t a bad way to go but I still prefer livin’.”  
  
Castiel nodded and Bobby moved past him to the coffee. “All right, let’s wrap this,” Dean said, his voice rough. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”  
  
“Raphael,” Bobby grunted. “Hate to say it, boy, but that’s more Leviathan than fish.”  
  
Castiel’s blood ran abruptly cold, and he fervently thanked God—which he did less, now, but his faith in his Father had at least been moderately restored by his resurrection—that Bobby was far from correct on that account. Raphael was a terrible foe, but even he wouldn’t stand against Leviathan.  
  
“No,” he said aloud, watching Dean hold out his mug for coffee, too. “Thankfully, Leviathan are not part of our problem.”  
  
Both Dean and Bobby looked up to stare at him. “Oh, come on,” Dean groaned, leaning back against the counter. “Those aren’t...”  
  
“They are, but as I said, they are not a concern,” Castiel said. “They’re locked in Purgatory. If they weren’t, Raphael wouldn’t dare touch Earth. Leviathan would destroy him with ease.”  
  
“That’s a terrifying notion,” Bobby muttered.  
  
“The lock’s a good one, right?” Dean said.  
  
Castiel nodded. “And the location of Purgatory has long since been lost; we needn’t fear the beasts kept there. We are at a stalemate in Heaven, for now. Enough angels have defied Raphael to remove his control.”  
  
“We’re still gonna have to take him out sometime,” Dean added, emerging from over the rim of his coffee mug.  
  
“An’ how in the hell do you expect to do that?” Bobby demanded, folding his arms over his chest. “Angels are hard enough. Archangels—”  
  
“Gabriel’s dead, and Michael’s in the box,” Dean interrupted. “We even got Gabriel trapped in a ring of holy fire once. It’s possible.”  
  
Bobby didn’t look convinced. “Case you didn’t remember, _Lucifer_ killed Gabriel,” he reminded Dean. “The box was a fluke. We all know that.”  
  
“And Gabriel had much the same advantage and disadvantage that I do,” Castiel pointed out. “He’d lived long enough among humanity to fall prey to its weaknesses, its emotions.”  
  
“We got Raphael in a ring of holy fire, too,” Dean protested. “And he’s as far from human as you can get.”  
  
“He won’t fall for that trick again,” Castiel said wearily.  
  
“No,” Bobby agreed, “he won’t. This won’t be easy.”  
  
“What else are we gonna do?” Dean demanded. “Sit around on our hands and wait for Raphael to come down here and fry Cas? And probably us, while he’s at it?”  
  
Bobby heaved a sigh and relented. “I’m still digging, but it doesn’t look good. All the lore I’ve come up with so far hasn’t mentioned a damn thing about being able to actually kill archangels. It doesn’t help that we have very limited experience with angels, period—in case you forgot, we’ve only known they even existed for two years.”  
  
“Two horrible, terrible years,” Dean muttered. “No offense, Cas.”  
  
Voices cut through the anxious chatter around him. _Castiel._ The angels who had committed to his cause were calling for him.  
  
“I must speak with my brothers,” he said aloud. Dean turned back to him, still frowning. “I won’t be long, but there is much to discuss. Heaven is quickly becoming a battleground.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean answered hurriedly. “Go. We’ll work on things here. Be careful, Cas.”  
  
Castiel opened his wings and flew.  
  
  
  
When he returned to the salvage yard, it was well past nightfall. He followed the faint sound of music to an old car. Dean was elbow-deep in the engine, sweating through his shirt; it was a warm night in South Dakota. Empty beer bottles littered the ground around his feet. A freshly-cracked glass teetered precariously at the back of the car’s engine compartment.  
  
“How’d it go?” Dean grunted, yanking an indistinguishable piece of machinery from the car.  
  
 _Horribly_ , Castiel wanted to say, because it was true: what he was doing felt like wrongness itself. “Well enough,” he answered. Dean straightened up, hands streaked with grease, and reached for his beer. “It is…sickeningly easy, to herd them.”  
  
Dean turned, the hint of a smirk playing around his mouth. “You know, Cas, you used to be just like them,” he commented.  
  
“I know,” Castiel replied, and he remembered how simple life had been before he had begun to have doubts. “It is not…their fault. We were not created like you. We were created to obey.”  
  
“You manage all right without it.” Dean pulled a fresh beer out of the nearby cooler, cracked off the cap, and offered it to Castiel. More out of politeness and camaraderie than any desire to drink—he still remembered the liquor store and the foul taste that had lingered in his mouth for days afterward—Castiel accepted it. The wet cold of the bottle seeped into his hand.  
  
“It still feels inherently wrong,” Castiel admitted. “I believe it will forever.”  
  
Dean remained silent, sipping his beer, head tipped back to look up at the stars. “ _I’ve got nothing on my mind: nothing to remember, nothing to forget_. _And I’ve got nothing to regret._ ” The song was punctuated with light static, but the voices and instruments were still discernible. “ _But I’m all tied up on the inside. No one knows quite what I’ve got. And I know that on the outside, what I used to be, I’m not, anymore…_ ”  
  
“This record was never my thing,” Dean said suddenly. “But Sammy loved it. Profound, and all that shit.”  
  
“I like it,” Cas said quietly, because there was something about the voice and instruments that was oddly soothing, if a bit melancholy.  
  
“You would,” Dean said, the flash of a smile touching his lips before vanishing again.  
  
There was a long moment of silence while they both looked at the stars, sipping cold beer, leaning back against the old car.  
  
“You okay, Cas?” Dean asked quietly.  
  
Castiel didn’t know how to respond, exactly. He took _okay_ to mean _fine_ , and he wasn’t sure he was. He had just started a war; he had failed to successfully raise Sam; the Apocalypse threatened them yet again. But for now—for this brief instant—he could rest, however momentarily, beside Dean, follow his gaze to the bright pinpricks of light in the velvet black above them, and be relieved that his best friend, at least, was on his side.  
  
“Yes,” Castiel answered finally.  
  
“Good,” Dean replied.  
  
But Dean’s heart was in turmoil, and Castiel knew that _he_ wasn’t okay.  
  
“We have time,” Castiel said hesitantly, though he knew that he was as good as ending he and Dean’s brief camaraderie with the words. He ached to admit it, even to himself, but he knew the truth: when Dean was truly confronted with the reality of his brother without a soul, he would no longer be able to maintain his friendship with Castiel, and the angel didn’t blame him. They would be fellow soldiers and nothing more, and Dean might find it in him to forgive Castiel his transgression if they recovered Sam’s soul, but not before.  
  
Regardless, he continued, “I could bring Sam here. He would help.”  
  
“How do you know where he is, anyway?” Dean said, sidestepping the offer. His jaw had already locked, his green eyes cooled.  
  
“I have been watching him closely since I raised him. The Enochian sigils are intact,” Castiel reassured Dean. “He’s safe from the other angels. But I did plant a device in his new car that would allow me to find him.”  
  
“What, like GPS?”  
  
“What is GPS?” Castiel asked, confused.  
  
“Never mind,” Dean muttered, and Castiel’s disappointment swelled; Dean unwilling to explain things was Dean shutting himself off, shutting himself down. “So you can find him?” He didn’t sound even half-hopeful at the prospect, and he didn’t _feel_ hopeful, either; just bleak, dark, tired.  
  
“Yes,” Castiel answered, though he knew it would only make Dean more bleak, more dark, and more tired. “It would be easy to go to him now.”  
  
Castiel heard Dean’s response even if he didn’t speak it, or think it: the roiling anxiety at the thought of seeing his brother, minus one soul, spoke volumes on its own.  
  
“He will be different,” Castiel said, trying to be gentle. “He will seem...strange...to you. Not unlike angels, I would imagine, in personality.”  
  
“Great,” Dean said, his voice half a groan. “No offense, Cas, but angels are usually dicks, and my brother was already enough of a douche bag before.” He grabbed a rag from the hood of the car and wiped the worst of the grease off his hands. “Better get it over with. Take me with you. Might be better if he saw me right away, too.”  
  
Castiel set down his beer. “As you wish.” He reached out to touch Dean’s forehead and left Singer Salvage Yard behind them.


	3. Dark Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So...so, what, he left out my need for seven hours a night—”
> 
> “No, he left your soul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnotes for warnings about this chapter.

At least Cas had the sense not to drop them right in Sam’s motel room. Instead, they appeared directly outside his door. Dean breathed hard as his insides squirmed. It had been a while since Cas had zapped him anywhere, and it had never been easy to recover from.  
  
“He’s here,” Cas said, squinting at the door. Dean got the feeling that he was seeing through it.  
  
“Great,” Dean muttered. “Look, Cas, I appreciate the lift, but I need to talk to him alone. I’ll call you, okay?”  
  
Cas’s fingers twitched, as though he’d been about to make a gesture and thought better of it. “I’ll be nearby,” he said, his eyes not meeting Dean’s, and vanished.  
  
Dean stood still for a moment, gazing vacantly at the spot where Cas had disappeared. His brother was on the other side of that door, and he was torn between tearing it down and standing in the hallway for the rest of the night, relieved one moment and terrified the next, because what had Cas brought back? Would it even bear a passing resemblance to Sam? And while he stood there, bracing himself, his brother was still on the rack in the Pit and the thought hadn’t gotten easier to handle, still bit into him with the ferocity of a hellhound—  
  
He shuddered, his hands clenched into fists, and pounded on the door before that thought went any further. “Sam,” he called, when the room inside stayed too quiet for too long. “It’s Dean.”  
  
Footsteps stumped to the door, the lock was drawn back, and Sam pulled the door open to stare at him.  
  
Dean wanted, he _wanted_ , to step forward, to hug his little brother until the stupid Sasquatch couldn’t breathe, because it sure looked like Sam: overlong, shaggy hair, big hazel eyes, too tall for his own damn good, but Sam held a knife out hilt-first just as Dean went for the flask of holy water in his jacket, because angel or not, they knew what protocol they _should_ follow when one or the other had died recently.  
  
The ritual was silent: a slice across the forearm, droplets of holy water spattering skin, and finally, finally, Dean let himself smile, and Sam smiled back, and if it looked a little forced, well, even a few _days_ in the Pit would do that to you, and he let himself believe, just for a second, that Cas was wrong, that he’d pulled Sam up whole after all—  
  
But then his brother said, “You’re supposed to be in Indiana,” and he knew. He knew Sam better than anyone, better than their dad had ever bothered to know him, better than any friend from Stanford or Angel of the Lord, and if his little brother was really free, the first thing he would’ve done was go running to Dean.  
  
So Dean brushed passed him into the room, didn’t touch him even though he wished he could; it would have been reassurance that Sam was alive, and if he really wasn’t, he would have to learn to deal with that.  
  
“You’re supposed to be in Hell,” he returned when he heard the click of the lock as Sam closed the door behind him.  
  
He turned saw the brief look of discomfort on Sam’s face. “Yeah,” he said, ducking his head. “Yeah, guess I’m supposed to be.”  
  
The silence went on a beat too long and Dean said, his voice too loud in the small room, “Do you remember?”  
  
Sam’s chin came up; he shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Whatever got me out must’ve done it quick.” He eyed Dean warily. “Why aren’t you in Indiana?”  
  
“Cas,” Dean said. “He showed up yesterday. We’ve got a problem.”  
  
“Yeah?” Sam’s tone was vaguely annoyed. “Usually do, when there are angels involved. What’s the deal?”  
  
“Raphael,” Dean replied, words leaving his lips as if by rote. “Trying to open the cage, bust Michael and Lucifer out, get their showdown going again.”  
  
“And Cas...came to you.”  
  
Dean ignored the mild condescension. “Didn’t know what else to do. Raphael was all set on killing him if he didn’t pledge allegiance like a good little soldier.”  
  
“And he can’t do that anymore,” Sam said, amused; he crossed the room to the table, where he’d clearly been in the middle of reading. “Thanks to you.”  
  
“Yeah. Right.” Dean eyed Sam as he sat down. “So you weren’t going to tell me, or anything. That you were alive.”  
  
Sam huffed. “Dean, the second you knew I was alive you’d have left Lisa and Ben, started hunting again. That wasn’t the plan, remember? You were done.”  
  
“I’m never done,” Dean said flatly. “Apocalypse is happening, I’ve gotta do something, right?”  
  
Sam was silent, staring at the books spread across the table.  
  
“Sam,” he said, and it was weird and wrong to stare at his brother and think that he wasn’t actually there. “We could use your help.”  
  
Sam looked up, and there was something in his eyes that Dean didn’t recognize, something he’d never seen even during their worst fights; it was a flash of intuition, a flash of deep and abiding suspicion, and it chilled him the way ghosts usually did.  
  
“How did you find me?” he said flatly.  
  
Dean hesitated, but when had lying ever helped them? It was time to start telling the truth, even if, he thought, feeling sick, it was far too late.  
  
“Cas,” Dean answered. He dropped into the seat across from Sam. “He’s got some kind of tracking device in your car. The Enochian’s still on your ribs, so he can’t see you, but he’s been keeping tabs.”  
  
Sam’s face was suddenly still, devoid of expression, blank. “I shouted myself hoarse, screaming for him to get his ass down here and explain why I was topside,” he said slowly. “And he’s known where I am, this whole time?”  
  
Dean folded his hands together on the table, pressing hard to stop them from shaking. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, Sam, he’s the one who raised you.”  
  
His brother’s features came alive again, this time with barely-restrained rage. Dean had to work not to recoil. “Then I have some fucking questions for Castiel,” Sam snarled, his voice a low, quick stream. “Like how come—” He stopped, his jaw working.  
  
“How come what?” Dean said, his heart racing.  
  
Sam leaned forward. “I don’t know if I should thank him or...or if he fucked up, because something’s different about me, Dean, and I’ve been trying to research it but there’s not a hell of a lot to find for this situation. I’m faster, I’m stronger, hell, I think I’m even smarter, but—I don’t sleep.”  
  
“You don’t sleep,” Dean repeated. “Like, run-of-the-mill hunter insomnia, or—”  
  
“I don’t _need_ to sleep,” Sam interrupted, his eyes bright with a combination of anger and awe. “I never get tired. Even when I’ve been hunting and driving for days, I’m never tired. I just...don’t sleep.” Sam stopped, breathed deeply, and leaned back, slamming a book shut. “Do you know...did he tell you anything?”  
  
“Yeah.” Dean cleared his throat. “He told me he raised you wrong.”  
  
Sam frowned. “Raised me wrong? Raised me wrong _how_? What’s so hard about it? He got you out, you were down there way longer than me—”  
  
“I was in Hell, you were in the cage,” Dean said, cutting him off. “You were harder to raise. That box was not made with an escape hatch. You know that.”  
  
“So...so, what, he left out my need for seven hours a night—”  
  
“No, he left your soul.”  
  
Sam opened his mouth to react but nothing came out; he mulled over the statement for a long moment before he said, slowly, “He left my soul.”  
  
“I guess he wasn’t strong enough to get everything out of the cage, and the soul’s the hardest part,” Dean said, as his throat threatened to close and Sam processed this, the rage gone, detached curiosity replacing it. “He said you’d have all your memories, and your skills, all that stuff, just...no emotions. Kind of like a dick angel.”  
  
Sam didn’t smirk, didn’t so much as smile; his eyes had gone thoughtful. “That’s why,” he said finally.  
  
“Why what?”  
  
“I went to Indiana,” Sam said, looking at Dean. “First thing I did. Got to Lisa’s house, saw you in there, with them, and I just—I thought I was supposed to feel something. I remember...feeling...something, when you showed up at that hotel room after four months dead and gone, but I didn’t feel...anything. I just thought I should leave you alone, that you would probably be okay with them. I knew that I was supposed to want you not to be hunting anymore. And I figured you probably didn’t have the answers, anyway, so that was when I started yelling for Cas, and when he didn’t turn up, I thought I’d just start hunting again. And I haven’t thought about it much since. Before you banged on my door,” and Sam looked only mildly apologetic, “you hadn’t even crossed my mind in days, and that’s wrong, right? That seems wrong. From what I remember, that’s wrong.”  
  
Dean felt a familiar burn in his sinuses, a sudden, horrible despair wrenching in his gut, and when he spoke, his voice was thick. “Yeah. That’s wrong. We’re gonna try,” he cleared his throat, trying to get it working again, “after we stop Raphael, we’re gonna try to get it back. You need your soul.”  
  
“Right,” Sam said, nodding, _relieved_ , like this solved everything, “probably, we’re supposed to have souls.”  
  
“Right,” Dean repeated, and, dazed, got to his feet. “I’m staying at Bobby’s while we try and figure things out. Could probably use your giant brain.”  
  
Sam nodded. “I’ll ditch the car, if you’re flying. It’s a piece of crap, anyway. Stole it from a junkyard, barely runs.”  
  
“Great,” Dean said blankly. “I’ll call Cas.”  
  
His fingers were numb as he pressed the buttons, his ears ringing, and when Cas appeared in the motel room, Dean avoided his questioning gaze.  
  
  
  
It was not his brother.  
  
Dean watched Sam for days. The latter barely ate and never slept. He worked with a concise fervor, discussed theories with Bobby in a voice that had no real fear of Armageddon, and was confused by human things: Dean’s frequent eruptions of rage and pain, Cas’s continually apparent guilt, Bobby’s quiet sadness. Anything that reduced productivity or impeded progress confused him. He was perfectly objective, exhaustingly hardworking, and Dean’s skin crawled whenever he came within five feet of his brother.  
  
Dean burned up the little energy he had with his anger. He tried to contain it, but he was constantly furious with all of them: with Sam for being less-than-interested in recovering his soul, with Bobby for coming up with nothing day after day, and with Cas, because even if he knew he had done his best, he blamed the angel. He hadn’t been able to look Castiel in the face since Pennsylvania. Granted, Castiel wasn’t around all that often; something about commanding a bunch of angels took up a lot of his time. When he was there, they were trading status reports, Bobby and Sam were always in the room, and the tension of a gathering war pushed back the strain in their friendship.  
  
If it had been anyone else’s soul trapped in Hell, maybe Dean wouldn’t have been so utterly incapable of forgiveness. But it wasn’t anyone else. It was Sammy, and Castiel had left part of him to be burned by Lucifer.  
  
While the quiet before the storm stretched on, he went on easy hunts with the-thing-that-was-not-Sam. Vampires in Sleepy Eye, a werewolf in Huron, a run-of-the-mill vengeful spirit in Pierre. Castiel, who could make an easy hunt go that much smoother, accompanied them when he could. When he couldn’t, he prepared his angels in Heaven for the inevitable: all-out war with Raphael’s forces. Everything was tense, tight, waiting with bated breath for the first shoe to fall. The only time Dean lost himself, forgot his rage, was in the familiar life-or-death dance of everyday hunting.  
  
His nightmares of Hell got stronger and there was no Castiel to burn them out; there was, instead, Castiel on the rack, suit and trench coat in shreds, silent and stoic except for his dark blue eyes, pupils blown with pain, pleading as Dean cut and sliced and destroyed, his hands dripping with the blood of the angel who never made a sound. Castiel had wings in these dreams, wings with jet black feathers flashing with hints of color, but the longer Dean cut into him, the duller the black became.  
  
“You shouldn’t have come,” he said, not knowing what the words meant.  
  
Dean pressed Cas’s angelic blade carefully through one sharp hipbone and his eyes just stayed open and locked on Dean, pleading and understanding, an endless loop so sickening that he planned to tear the eyes out. To preface that, he ripped the blade back out of the bone—Castiel’s back arched in agony, a rattled gasp ripped from his lungs—and sliced up the ridge of his cheekbone, watching the knife stain red. The angel’s hair was damp with his sweat, and if Dean leaned close enough he could hear his heart pounding, racing toward combustion like a cornered animal. Abrupt, so abrupt that Cas didn’t brace for the blow, he plunged the knife deep into one wing. Castiel finally screamed, nothing like the roar of the voice made to save him, as he dragged the blade down through skin, sinew and bone, severing the joints and ligaments until they were mangled and dripping.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
The voice didn’t come from Castiel’s mouth—the one that continued to scream—but it was Castiel’s thunder and Dean turned from his grip on the blade to the angel standing intact some distance from him. Dean had expected horror, revulsion, fear, but found none; Castiel just stepped forward, pressed fingertips to his forehead, and he was awake, gasping, shaking, sweating. Castiel leaned over his bed on the couch, concern flickering across his features, and for a second their eyes met and Dean’s stomach rebelled, threatening to throw up everything he’d eaten in recent memory. He fumbled upright, feeling blindly for his boots.  
  
“Dean,” Cas said, his voice unbearably gentle, “I can help with the dreams, but you have to—”  
  
Dean didn’t let him finish; he yanked on his boots and, still shaking furiously, went out into the salvage yard. He picked up a crowbar and destroyed the oldest car on the lot, beating windows and doors in until the metal sliced too deep into his palms to continue, until his shoulders and back ached and his hands were slippery with his own blood. In the morning, after a fitful few hours in the Impala, his hands were healed. He didn’t see Castiel for another week, but the dreams stopped.  
  
The angel wasn’t with them when they took down a pair of ghouls in Brookings. Sam emerged without a scratch on him; Dean was in considerably worse shape, dazed by a kick to the head, weakened by the long, dripping gash on his forearm. He felt his rage bubble over until he was blind with it, dizzy with the combined half-concussion and permeating sense of wrath. Sam was a better hunter—ten times better than he had ever been—without a soul. His detached state of being kept him safe. Dean felt the weight of his own soul weakening him, exposing his vulnerabilities, festering within him like a ticking time bomb.  
  
“Cas,” Sam said, fumbling with his phone and holding Dean, who had been about to collapse, upright. Dean’s skin erupted in goosebumps at the proximity. “Could use some help if you aren’t busy, we’re in Brookings—”  
  
A quiet flutter of wings, and Castiel was there, striding forward, his features fixed with concern. He took Dean’s weight off Sam’s shoulders without hesitation. “Go,” Castiel said to Sam. “Drive back to Bobby’s. We’ll meet you there.”  
  
Sam nodded and ducked into the driver’s seat of the Impala, leaving Dean alone with Cas, still supporting his weight, at the barren outskirts of Brookings. Dean pulled away, though the world spun enough to stagger him. “Dean,” Cas said, following him. “Let me—”  
  
“Why the hell did you bother?” Dean demanded roughly, looking into Castiel’s face for longer than a second for the first time in three weeks. “You should have just left all of him down there, Cas. I can’t even fucking _stand_ him—my own brother...” His voice escalated until he was shouting. “It’s not even him, and it’s so much fucking worse, because Sam’s still _down there_ , but in the meantime I have to deal with that—with that—I don’t even know what you brought back! Everything about him is just fucking _wrong_ —”  
  
“Dean—I’m—”  
  
But before Cas could say _sorry_ one more, gut-wrenching time, Dean punched him in the face, and the angel gave under his hand, as if purposefully crumbling at Dean’s onslaught. Dean remembered that hitting Castiel felt like hitting solid rock, but it didn’t anymore, as if Cas was letting himself be hurt. He hit the ground and Dean kicked him in the ribs—he felt them crack beneath the force, snapping loud enough to hear—before he lost his balance, too, staggered down to his knees beside the angel. Shaking now, he wrapped a hand in the collar of Cas’s shirt, dragging him up from the huddle of limbs in the dirt.  
  
“Dean,” Cas gasped out, “I know, it’s my fault, I’m—”  
  
Dean hit him again, and again, and again, until Castiel bled as if he was human, until he pleaded for Dean to forgive him, his voice desperate and choked with blood, until he hung limp in Dean’s grasp, blue eyes glassy with half-consciousness.  
  
“Please,” he rasped, his eyes struggling to focus on Dean’s, “please, Dean, I’m sorry—I only did it for you, you were _suffering_ without Sam, I thought I could make it stop—I know I failed, please, _please_ , I’ll make it right, I promise—”  
  
In his nightmares those eyes had never lost focus, had always been sharp and awake and Dean realized the difference, felt sick with the horror of Castiel’s blood actually slicking his hands. Dean gripped him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet, supporting Castiel’s weight as he nearly collapsed. He yanked the angel’s arm over his shoulders, holding tight to his wrist.  
  
“Okay,” he said quietly, breathing fast and hard, his hand numb. “Okay, okay—Cas? You still with me?”  
  
Cas lifted a shaking hand, pressed his fingers to Dean’s temple, and they reappeared in Bobby’s den. Dean’s injuries had mended; Castiel was still bleeding.  
  
“What in the hell…”  
  
Bobby had lurched to his feet as Dean steadied Cas, whose head had slumped forward; he was quickly becoming dead weight on Dean’s shoulders. With a grunt, Dean heaved the angel forward, depositing him as gently as possible on the couch.  
  
“What happened?” Bobby demanded, staring at the angel, who was now clearly unconscious.  
  
“I, uh…” Dean massaged his hand, which was no longer even the slightest bit sore. The blood was gone, but he still felt it, coating his skin, tainting him. “I punched him. In the face. A few times.”  
  
Bobby’s head snapped up. “You…what? And that didn’t break your hand?”  
  
Dean shook his head. “Almost like he was human. But he still healed me and zapped us back here, so…his angel-mojo can’t be gone.” He paused a beat and stared at Castiel, slumped on the couch, blood on his face. “Right?” Dean asked uncertainly.  
  
Bobby shot a final, disbelieving look at the crumpled angel, grabbed a handful of Dean’s jacket, and dragged him from the room. “Hey, hey, hey,” Dean protested angrily, yanking himself out of Bobby’s grip once they were in the hallway. “What the hell?”  
  
“Is this really the time for you to decide that Cas needs his face rearranged?” Bobby said gruffly, scowling at Dean.  
  
Dean had already started to feel the hot prickle of shame, accompanied by something much worse, as he picked Cas up from the ground; it intensified now, burning in his chest, and he looked at the floor rather than Bobby’s calculating, shrewd gaze.  
  
“I’m not sayin’ he didn’t screw up,” Bobby said, his voice a little gentler. “But he did his damn best, Dean, and he did it for you, like every other fucking thing he’s ever done in the last few years. You could maybe cut ‘im some slack, ‘specially since he already feels damn bad about it. Looks like a kicked puppy every time he turns up and you won’t look at ‘im,” he muttered, and Dean felt flayed raw by his own self-loathing. “You think he woulda let you beat him half to death otherwise?”  
  
“I know, Bobby, I just…” Dean ran a hand over his chin and realized his was shaking. “I snapped, okay? Sam’s creepy as hell these days and I keep thinking about his soul being down there with Lucifer and how we’re no closer to getting the damn thing out, and we aren’t any closer to killing Raphael, either—”  
  
“We’ll get there,” Bobby reassured. “You might wanna move Cas to the panic room. More comfortable than that old couch.”  
  
Dean brushed by him, back into the den, where Castiel’s blue eyes had half-opened, watching him. A black eye was forming, quickly, on the left side of his face. Dean winced at the sight; it reminded him of a Cas that had been human.  
  
“Okay, Cas,” he murmured. “Let’s move you somewhere more comfortable, huh?”  
  
He wrapped an arm around the angel and pulled him to a sitting position; he tugged a limp limb over his own shoulders and hauled Castiel’s weight upward. He remembered the situation reversed as he passed Bobby again, urging Cas’s feet to shuffle along with him. He remembered his own dead weight supported on Castiel’s slighter frame after the angel had wrecked him.  
  
“I think we’re even, Cas,” Dean muttered as they half-tumbled to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. “You shouldn’t’ve let me—”  
  
“Dean,” the angel’s voice rasped; the shock of dark hair fell sideways onto Dean’s shoulder with a low groan. “I deserved it.”  
  
He was unconscious again; Dean half-carried him the rest of the way to the panic room, pulled Cas’s trench coat and suit jacket off, and laid him on the mattress. The sight of the angel’s half-mangled face made his stomach twist, but there was very little he could do for Cas, who could heal on his own. That wouldn’t make Dean feel any better, though, so he stomped upstairs to grab first aid supplies.  
  
“Where’s Cas?”  
  
Sam’s inquisitive voice, just behind him, startled Dean; he forced himself to turn around slowly.  
  
“Panic room,” he replied.  
  
Sam’s eyes fell to the supplies he was holding. “Who’s that for?”  
  
“Cas,” Dean muttered.  
  
Sam raised his eyebrows. “Is he injured? What happened?”  
  
Dean swallowed. “I did,” he mumbled.  
  
“How?” Sam asked immediately. “Is he becoming human again? Because last time I checked, punching him—”  
  
“Usually breaks your hand, yeah,” Dean finished. “But he’s not…human. He just…let me.”  
  
The silence stretched uncomfortably while Dean stared somewhere over Sam’s left shoulder and Sam stared at Dean, thinking.  
  
“This is about me, isn’t it?” Sam asked. “You’re pissed at him for leaving my soul in Hell, because now you can’t stand me.”  
  
“No, Sam, that’s not—”  
  
“It’s fine,” Sam assured, and fuck if he didn’t sound like he meant it, too. “Look, Dean, you’ve got every right. I’m not your brother. Not really. I mean, yeah, I have all his memories, all his brainpower, but I’m not _him_. Honestly, I look back on a lot of the stuff that he did and I can’t figure it out. It just doesn’t make sense to me.” He shrugged. “I can’t even tell you what your brother would have thought of you beating up Cas, but I can say that I just hope you got it out of your system, because we still need him.”  
  
Sam was like this, now: cold, calculating. Dean often got the feeling that he was an unwitting pawn on Sam’s imagined chessboard. Dean hated chess.  
  
“And, you know, he tried,” Sam added with a shrug. “Can’t hold that against him.” He clapped Dean’s shoulder once and, as if sensing that Dean wasn’t capable of saying another word, left the kitchen.  
  
Dean descended into the basement to fix up Castiel, who suddenly seemed like the only remaining friend he had.  
  
  
  
Castiel woke to the feeling of something warm, wet, and a little rough being dragged across his face. It was strangely soothing, though he cringed when it was pressed to his mouth; the skin had split open there on his teeth. He opened his eyes, half-expecting Bobby to have taken pity on him. Instead, Dean’s face hovered close, his hand pressing the cloth to Castiel’s wounds.  
  
“You gonna pass out on me again?” Dean asked, green eyes flicking to briefly meet Castiel’s, his voice a low growl.  
  
Castiel didn’t remember exactly when Dean’s voice started having this effect on him: wrenching an ache from his chest, pulling his heartbeat to a stutter, making it an effort to breathe smoothly, even though he didn’t need to _breathe_ in the first place. He only knew that the voice was just one aspect of Dean’s influence on him, the influence that had started when Dean’s soul had first touched his Grace in Hell.  
  
“No,” he answered, shifting his eyes away from Dean’s troubled, tired features.  
  
The low anger that usually burned in his friend appeared to have burnt out. Castiel lifted a hand to touch the blood he felt pooling in a cut on his forehead, but Dean caught his wrist in a strong grip and pushed it away.  
  
“Wanna tell me what the fuck happened back there?” Dean said, pressing the cloth to Castiel’s forehead.  
  
Castiel stared at the Devil’s Trap in the ceiling vent, wishing it was possible or even feasible to tell Dean exactly what had been happening: that he had been unable to bear one more day spent without Dean looking him in the face; that he had ached for contact with the soul he was closest to; that without Dean he was without anyone and felt so terribly alone; that he longed for forgiveness and retribution in equal doses; that he was terrified of Dean’s nightmares and felt deserving of them at the same time; that his emotions were growing stronger as he spent more time on Earth; that he felt alienated, stuck halfway between angel and human, unwilling to be the former any longer but unable to be the latter.  
  
Castiel settled for a simpler answer than all that. “I thought that if you were allowed to exact some of your wrath on me, you might begin to forgive me,” he said.  
  
Dean was silent; Castiel turned his head back to meet the other man’s tired, sad stare. Dean looked worn down. Dean _felt_ worn down. Castiel wondered how much more he could wear before he ceased to exist.  
  
“Cas,” Dean began, and the angel noticed for the first time something else in his friend’s features, a revulsion that Castiel had seen often in darker times. It was directed inward rather than outward, lingered on the dreams he’d been dreaming of late. “I know you were just trying to help. I’m sorry. Sometimes…my anger got the best of me. I didn’t mean—”  
  
“You did mean everything you said,” Castiel said sharply, sitting up. “I can see that much, Dean.”  
  
Dean’s glare turned defiant. “That’s the thing about bein’ what you are,” he said. “You don’t get it. Just because it’s the truth in the moment doesn’t mean it’s the truth, period. People say and feel a lot of things and they don’t all mean the same, Cas. My anger got the better of me and that’s that. I meant what I said then, sure, but now I sure as hell don’t, not seeing you like…like this.” Dean threw down the cloth he had been holding—water splashed gently from the bowl at his feet—and he got up, turned his back on Castiel, and strode to the other side of the room, his arms folded. “How come I could hurt you, anyway?” he demanded of the wall, shoulders stiff with tension.  
  
“I’m not certain,” Castiel replied, getting to his feet and cringing again. His ribs ached.  
  
Dean turned back to him. “What d’you mean, you’re _not certain_? And for fuck’s sake, sit down.”  
  
Castiel ignored this request. “I don’t know why you had this effect,” he clarified. “My ability to heal you was intact; so was my ability to fly. I just can’t seem to heal myself.”  
  
A look of wild concern crossed Dean’s features, chased by that hardening of his eyes. “You _can’t_?”  
  
“No,” Castiel confirmed. “It’s…strange. It feels as if my Grace is intact, but it’s...not working the way it usually would.”  
  
“You’re not getting humanified again, are you?” Dean crossed the room again, put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, and applied pressure. Understanding that Dean was quite adamant about him sitting down, Castiel acquiesced.  
  
“It does not seem the same.” Castiel watched Dean wring the cloth out after he, too, had retaken his seat beside the mattress. “I’m sorry. I wish I had a better answer. It is unprecedented, to my knowledge.”  
  
“Well,” Dean grumbled, digging around in his first aid supplies, “you’re going to have to tell me what hurts, then, so I can patch you up right. Okay?”  
  
Castiel nodded once, staying quiet, as Dean straightened up with a needle and a length of synthetic thread, frowning.  
  
“Wait,” he said. “Why don’t you just fly off and get one of your angel buddies to heal you?”  
  
Castiel leveled a glare at him. “Dean,” he said icily, “perhaps it has escaped your notice, but no angel in Heaven is overly fond of you. If they were to learn how I sustained such injuries—”  
  
“Right, right, I get it.” Dean set the needle on his leg, the revulsion reappearing in his features. “You’re going to need stitches here,” he informed Castiel, pressing the washcloth back to the split lip. Castiel felt the stinging gash extending up toward his cheek. “Not too many. Can you feel that?”  
  
“Yes. It is…uncomfortable.”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes, removing the cloth and lifting a cotton swab reeking of antiseptic. “Try and hold still. It’s gonna get a lot more uncomfortable.”  
  
The pricks of the needle weaving in and out of his skin were, indeed, uncomfortable, but the fury of Dean’s wrath had been a thousand times worse. This was pleasant in comparison, a putting-together rather than taking-apart, Dean’s green eyes focused on the wound, his hand steady and firm but gentle, too. Castiel stayed very still, allowing him to work without interruption. Dean snipped off the thread with a satisfied huff and leaned back.  
  
“I don’t blame you for your nightmares,” Castiel said, before Dean could speak. “I only eliminated them because you didn’t seem to derive any pleasure from them.”  
  
Dean’s eyes met his, shock and terror and disgust all swimming in the green orbs. “Why would I ever get any pleasure from that?” he said hoarsely. “They make me...sick...the things I want to do.” His hands shook as he filled a plastic bag with ice.  
  
“I deserve it.”  
  
For a moment, he thought Dean might hit him again, but instead he roughly thrust the bag of ice at Castiel. “Hold this on your eye,” he instructed curtly, “it’s bruised.” Castiel obeyed, looking down as he did so. The silence stretched on; Castiel felt Dean struggling for control. “No one,” he said finally, “deserves that.” His voice was low, strained. “It’s not just you, though it has been...lately. I’ve dreamed of my dad...Ellen...Jo...Bobby...Sam.” He paused, breathing heavily. “I can be angry at you, I can even take a swing at you—God knows that’s happened with everyone on that list—but that’s different than what I did for Alastair. What I did for pleasure.” His tone curled with disgust. “I don’t even want those things when I’m dreaming, let alone when I’m awake. I’m just powerless to stop myself.” He reached out and Castiel felt a hand, warm and steadying, settle onto his shoulder. “You fucked up, but you don’t deserve that. You got me?”  
  
Castiel wasn’t sure he did, but he trusted Dean and the feeling behind his words was genuine, sincere, insistent. “Yes,” he said, nodding.  
  
“Good.” Dean took a deep breath. “Now. Anything else hurt?”  
  
“My ribs,” Castiel said, remembering the twinge of pain that had gone through him upon standing. “Your bodies are so fragile,” he added in a murmur.  
  
Dean snorted. “Sorry to disappoint, dude. Flesh is vulnerable.” He reached forward and started to undo Castiel’s tie.  
  
“What are you doing?” Castiel asked, alarmed.  
  
“I have to see if you’re bruised. Your shirt’s in the way.” With nimble, quick movements, Dean disposed of the tie and started to unbutton Castiel’s shirt. “It’ll be easier to feel if there’s any breaks this way, too,” he added. His fingers paused in the act, though, and a frown crossed his face. “Hey, is Jimmy still in there, Cas? He might be feeling this more than you.”  
  
Castiel shook his head. “Jimmy died over a year ago, when I first faced Raphael.”  
  
Dean’s hands took up again, releasing buttons. “Raphael…killed…your vessel?”  
  
“Not so directly. A human’s soul, in life, is very tied to the body. The body was destroyed in Raphael’s attack, so Jimmy died, as I did. When I was resurrected, his soul was gone from the body, so I suppose it’s mine, now, in a way. I believe it’s better for Jimmy, this way...he was uncomfortable inhabiting this skin while I did.” Dean’s fingers had paused again; a deep scowl stole across his features. “What is it, Dean?”  
  
Dean’s fingertips brushed his chest. “You’re…scarred. These are Enochian sigils.”  
  
Castiel looked down, puzzled, and noticed what Dean spoke of: the symbols carved into his skin, ridges of scar tissue formed across his chest, the remainder of his last battle as a fallen angel. “Oh,” he said. “I hadn’t realized.”  
  
“Seriously? You raised me without a single damn scar and God couldn’t wipe out the evidence of your suicide mission?” Dean made a noise of disgust, his anger burning to life again, and folded the shirt back to examine the angel’s ribs. “Well, unless you count that handprint,” he added in a mutter.  
  
“I don’t mind,” Castiel said honestly. “It isn’t hurting me.”  
  
“It did, though. That was your killing stroke, Cas. It was what made you human.”  
  
“That isn’t a killing stroke,” Castiel replied mildly.  
  
“Going from immortal to forty years left? Sounds fatal to me.”  
  
“Dean—”  
  
“What?” Dean snapped. His eyes focused, determined, on the fingers pressed along Castiel’s ribs. Light pain emanated from the bruising, but Dean’s touch was gentle and sure; he had done this a hundred, a thousand times before, and the pattern of his prodding fingers was soothing.  
  
“I know I…complained…about being human,” Castiel said hesitantly; Dean’s shoulders tensed. “Please understand that I only did so because you needed my power, and I felt useless without it. I would have remained human—happily—if we weren’t at war.”  
  
Dean glanced up, disbelief written into his frown. “You don’t mean that, Cas. You’ve got a family—Heaven—wings—”  
  
“My family is tearing itself apart,” Castiel interrupted, his voice hard. “Heaven is beautiful—but quickly becoming a battlefield. It won’t be the same after this. And my wings…” Castiel shrugged, an awkward gesture on him, a gesture that felt as awkward as it probably looked. “Well, I would miss them. But you have wings of your own, in a way.”  
  
“My baby doesn’t fly,” Dean corrected sternly. “But sort of, sure.” Dean squinted at him, curious and, Castiel thought, half-hopeful. “Can you…do that? Become human?”  
  
“There are a few ways,” Castiel said smoothly. “I have yet to research them thoroughly. My…angel-mojo…is still needed.”  
  
“You’re serious,” Dean said, a frown forcing a crease between his eyebrows.  
  
Castiel ducked his head, avoiding Dean’s scrutinizing grimace. “Yes,” he said. “If I survive this, I would like to be human.”  
  
There was silence for a long moment, where Castiel felt Dean studying his features and couldn’t bring himself to meet that interested, baffled gaze. “What would you do?” Dean asked, fingers taking up again. “If you were human, I mean.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Castiel admitted. He wanted to say, _I would stay with you_ , but he knew that Dean would find that strange. “What will you do, when this is over?”  
  
Dean shrugged. “Keep hunting, probably. It’d be nice to have normal, small jobs again.”  
  
“Perhaps I could become a hunter,” Castiel suggested.  
  
“You’d have a lot to learn,” Dean pointed out mildly. “Remember the whole fragile-body thing? Hunting’s dangerous for us mortals. You don’t get to just smite stuff.”  
  
“Would you teach me?” Castiel asked.  
  
Dean glanced up and smiled crookedly. “Tell ya what. If we both live through this, and you still wanna be human, I’ll teach you everything I know.”  
  
Castiel tentatively smiled back, right before Dean’s fingers pressed into his ninth rib and he let out a startled yelp at the sharp pain.  
  
“Yep,” Dean said, pressing at the area more lightly. “It’s cracked. Not totally broken, so you’re…lucky, I guess.” He pulled a face. “I really hope your healing mojo kicks in soon, Cas, because—what the _fuck_?!”  
  
Dean knocked the chair over in his haste to back up, staring in a combination of awe and terror at the wings extended toward him. A feather had brushed his arm; Castiel still felt it, where the warmth of Dean’s skin bled into him. The rush was strangely dizzying.  
  
“Why aren’t I blind, Cas?” Dean demanded, still staring at the wings. His wariness kept him at a distance. “Isn’t this a true-form-burn-your-eyes-out kind of thing?”  
  
“I...don’t know,” Castiel confessed. “To be honest, I’m not even sure how you can see them, let alone feel them. Speaking simply, they don’t belong on this plane.” He stretched his wings out, testing them, and as usual, they went right through the walls of the panic room. “They still don’t exist on this plane,” he confirmed, though this created more questions than it answered. “But, for some reason, you are...seeing them.”  
  
Dean was gaping at the sight of his wings disappearing into walls, so he drew them up to fit in the room.  
  
“What the hell is going on, Cas?” he asked hoarsely, eyes still fixed on the angel’s wings.  
  
Castiel wished he had an answer, as much for himself as for Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TW: Torture scene.


	4. Powerless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, this is an extra level of weird.” Bobby dug two beers out of the refrigerator and leaned against the kitchen counter, frowning. “Our weird usually obeys certain rules about weirdness.”
> 
> “Oh, come on. Listen to yourself. It so doesn’t.” Dean caught the can Bobby threw to him and cracked it open, taking a deep gulp. “There is no level of usual with us, not since the angels, anyway. Sam’s soulless and I can apparently heal angels by touching their wings. Just another day for us.”

Cas’s wings were enormous.  
  
Dean had seen their shadow before; he wasn’t likely to forget the first day they’d met. The shadow was nothing compared to the real deal, though. You just didn’t get a real scope for how big the things were when the vision was strictly two-dimensional. The feathers ruffled a bit, the wings curved up to fit within the boundaries of the panic room, and Dean felt strangely underwater, as if he was drowning.  
  
These were the wings he’d seen in his nightmares, the wings he’d cut open and destroyed.  
  
His hands clenched as he stared at them, his jaw working, eyes sweeping over their intricacies. They were black, but the feathers glimmered with glimpses of color here and there: flashes of purple, green, blue, shifting and moving as the wings did, shimmering as though in an invisible breeze. He swallowed, remembering the angel’s blood obscuring those colors, dulling them with imminent death. Easily two times in length the height of Cas himself—if not a bit larger than that—they ran the risk of bumping into and knocking over everything in the room.  
  
But they didn’t. They just went right through things.  
  
Except for Dean.  
  
“This is weird,” he finally said, as tonelessly as he could; the blood was still there, he could feel it on his hands, feel it slicking those feathers as he ripped Cas open--  
  
“I would choose different vocabulary, personally,” Cas replied grimly; his blue eyes watched Dean warily, and Dean, realizing the concern in the stare, forced his gaze away from the wings.  
  
“I’m okay,” Dean reassured. He bent down to pick up the chair, setting it close to Cas again. “They just...surprised me.” Cas was still staring at him, so he talked on, trying to cover the tension he felt in the presence of those wings. “Let’s recap. I beat you up and not only do I _not_ break every bone in my hand, but you can’t heal.”  
  
“Yes,” Cas affirmed.  
  
“And then you touch me with...” Dean couldn’t say it, couldn’t force himself to say the words; when his mouth wasn’t moving his teeth were gritted against the echo of those nightmares. “Why did you touch me, anyway?”  
  
“It wasn’t intentional,” Cas said defensively, shifting on the mattress. His discomfort was mounting, too. “When you found the fracture...imagine a knee-jerk response. This is something like that.”  
  
“So it’s a wing-jerk response. _That_ doesn’t sound dirty.” Dean smirked at the angel’s exasperated look; the humor calmed him, settled the rising tide of red in his mind. “So you touch me, and suddenly I can not only see, but feel your...wings.” He forced himself to say it, even if it brought back the image of Cas’s lips open in a terrible scream. “And hear them. I mean, I’ve heard them before, that little rustling noise they make when you pop in and out of places, but never so...loud.”  
  
Cas stayed quiet, watching him.  
  
“What?” Dean asked, though the blood was rushing in his head and he didn’t think he could go back to talking about the nightmares, not so soon, when ten minutes ago it had been all he could do to explain for a _moment_ what they meant--  
  
“You’ve seen them before,” Cas said, his voice low, and Dean flinched.  
  
“I’ve dreamed them, yeah,” he said hoarsely, and Cas reached out, pressed a hand hard into the old scar on his shoulder. His rising panic dulled abruptly; he found himself relatively calm again.  
  
“Not then,” Cas said patiently. “Though, yes, you’ve been remembering them in your nightmares in a context they were never a part of. These are not the wings I had when I raised you from Hell. These were regrown as we escaped.”  
  
Dean took a moment to let that sink in. “Your wings...”  
  
“...burned,” Cas said matter-of-factly, apparently unaffected, while the idea of it alone made Dean cringe. “Shortly after I found you.”  
  
Dean tried to ignore the guilt that crept up inside him. “What were they like before?” he finally ventured.  
  
Cas pulled his hand back from his shoulder, and though Dean missed the contact, the panic, at least, stayed under control. “Indescribable, unfortunately,” he said neutrally. “An angel’s wings are wings only in the most practical sense; they’re what enables us to travel. Otherwise, they only bear passing resemblance to actual wings.”  
  
“Raphael’s lightning,” Dean muttered, and Cas nodded, seemingly irked. “Yours are better,” he said decisively, sparing a glance for the black feathers. “Lightning-wings seem like a bit of a liability.”  
  
Cas smiled, the barest tick upward of his lips. “I am very happy with my wings,” he said, quiet but earnest. “They were indescribable before Hell, yes, but infinitely more beautiful now.”  
  
Dean leaned forward to take up his examination of Cas’s ribs again. “There’s the fracture,” he said, finding it with his fingers. “How’s it feel?”  
  
The smile was replaced with a puzzled frown. “Not as painful as before.”  
  
He was tense, though, defensive of his injury; where his body did not betray him, his wings did. They had dropped down to hover protectively close to Cas’s ribs, enveloping Dean in the process. He felt the barest brush of a soft, cool feather against his arm, his cheek, and for a second, he saw red again.  
  
“You mean it doesn’t hurt?” he said, pressing against the fracture again. Cas winced.  
  
“No, it is still...painful...but not nearly as painful as before.”  
  
The thought had barely occurred to Dean before he executed it; if he gave it a second thought, he wouldn’t be able to go through it. Just pulling his hand back from Cas’s skin and sliding his fingers into feathers instead was enough to make him shudder, seized with revulsion by the memory of blood slicking that cool, downy plumage, but he held on even when Cas jerked back, trying to free himself.  
  
He was dizzy with the memory of a blade, the rack, when Cas suddenly shuddered and went still in his grasp. The bruise on his face healed as Cas stared back at him, and Dean _felt_ it, the tender soreness slowly receding even as the black faded to yellow and vanished; he felt the pain drain from the split that he had just sewn up while the skin knitted and the stitches fell out. Hell faded as Cas’s injuries mended, as his touch _healed_ rather than _killed_.  
  
“What in the _hell_ —”  
  
Castiel and Dean turned simultaneously to look at Bobby, who stood in the door to the panic room, gaping at them. He sounded like he had just about had enough insanity in his house for the day. Dean could only just see Bobby’s head over one of Castiel’s outstretched wings, his eyes widening as the wound on Castiel’s forehead scabbed over, then fell away to reveal new, healed flesh beneath.  
  
“Apparently I have a healing touch,” Dean said, the shadow of a smirk touching his lips.  
  
“You’re not touching him,” Bobby said slowly.  
  
Cas comprehended Bobby’s meaning before Dean did. “He can’t see them,” the angel said quietly.  
  
“See what?” Bobby demanded, stepping into the panic room.  
  
“Stop,” Dean said hurriedly, mouth suddenly dry at the thought of anyone touching Cas’s wings, “you’ll run right into them!”  
  
But Bobby was standing right in the middle of Castiel’s wing, as if it wasn’t there.  
  
“It’s fine,” Cas said, reaching out to press a soothing hand once again to Dean’s shoulder. “You all stand in them often enough. They don’t exist for Bobby. Just for you.”  
  
Castiel said _just for you_ in a strange voice, half-curious, half-fearful.  
  
“What?” Bobby said, automatically backing up a step, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. “What’m I standin’ in?”  
  
“Wings,” Dean managed to croak out, wondering if this situation could possibly get any weirder. “You were standin’ in Cas’s wings.”  
  
Bobby’s gaze travelled from the empty air in front of him, to Cas’s hand pressed into Dean’s shoulder, to Dean’s hand, clenched tight in feathers that Bobby couldn’t see.  
  
“You can see them?” the older hunter said, understanding.  
  
Dean nodded. “And feel them. And, hey, apparently when I touch them, it works a healing trick.”  
  
Bobby was staring at Dean in disbelief. “We need to talk.”  
  
“Hold up a minute. I’m almost done.” Dean turned his gaze back to Cas, whose mouth had ticked halfway up in a smile. He found himself looking at it and almost smiling back. “How’s the rib?”  
  
Cas straightened his back; his feathers rustled as his wings stretched, too. “Fine. I believe it’s healed.” His blue eyes flickered with gratitude. “Thank you, Dean.”  
  
Dean nodded, unsure what to say, and slowly released the feathers. They felt strangely liquid as his hand slipped away. The wings didn’t disappear when he let go, but Cas pulled them back, allowing them to settle into a natural slump behind him.  
  
“Relax, and don’t go disappearin’ just yet,” Dean ordered. He followed Bobby out of the room, Cas’s blue eyes burning into the back of his neck.  
  
“Shouldn’t your eyes be smoked out of your skull?” Bobby demanded as they climbed the stairs. “Aren’t his wings part of that deal?”  
  
“Thought they were,” Dean replied, rubbing his hand absently. “Doesn’t seem that way, though, does it? And you didn’t see anything?”  
  
“Nothin’. Not even a shadow. Something weird is going on here, Dean.”  
  
Dean barked a laugh. “Come on, Bobby, this is us. Life’s always weird.”  
  
“No, this is an _extra_ level of weird.” Bobby dug two beers out of the refrigerator and leaned against the kitchen counter, frowning. “Our weird usually obeys certain _rules_ about weirdness.”  
  
“Oh, come on. Listen to yourself. It so doesn’t.” Dean caught the can Bobby threw to him and cracked it open, taking a deep gulp. “There is no level of usual with us, not since the angels, anyway. Sam’s soulless and I can apparently heal angels by touching their wings. Just another day for us.”  
  
“I seriously doubt it’s all angels. It’s somethin’ in particular about Cas.” Bobby was squinting at him; the scrutinizing gaze made Dean feel exposed, as though Bobby knew something Dean _should_ know.  
  
“Yeah, well.” Dean took another sip of his beer. He decided not to mention the sensation he’d experienced, the pain he’d shared with Cas as his wounds healed. “I don’t know what to tell you.”  
  
“I have a theory.”  
  
Dean hadn’t expected Cas to obey his command, so it was no surprise that the angel had appeared right behind him, fully clad in trench coat, suit jacket, and backwards tie. Cas was frowning thoughtfully, and one of his wings absently brushed Dean’s shoulder. Dean reached out and yanked the tie straight, his fingers tightening the knot while Cas stared at him, clearly amused.  
  
“Care to share with the class?” Dean asked when the silence stretched on and he had awkwardly smoothed the tie down, only belatedly realizing what he was doing.  
  
“I have to confirm it. It’s unprecedented.” Dean didn’t like how often Cas had used that word in recent memory. “I’ll speak to Joshua; he should have more knowledge on the subject.” Cas glanced from Bobby back to Dean. “I shouldn’t be long.”  
  
“You know where to find us,” Dean said. “Watch your back, Cas.”  
  
The angel nodded, a feather brushed Dean’s arm, and he vanished with a rustle.  
  
“Okay, well,” Dean said, cracking his neck to the side. “I’m going to take this rare opportunity to get some sleep before Featherbrain gets back.”  
  
Bobby huffed in exasperation, dropping his beer can into the recycling bin. “I hope when he turns up in the middle of the night he decides to wake you up and leave me out of it.”  
  
Dean toed off his shoes and flopped down on the couch. “I’d say the odds are in your favor, Bobby. I’ll let you know what he says tomorrow.”  
  
Bobby took the stairs up to his bedroom, and the house was still. Sam must have gone into town to drink his way through the local bars; the whole not-sleeping thing had really led to a surge in his social life. Dean smirked—only momentarily, because truth be told, it wasn’t really a laughing matter—and slipped down further into the old couch, trying to get comfortable, trying to settle, but the thought of Castiel’s feathers and their absent brushes fluttered in his mind, and he knew that his sleep would be restless at best.  
  
  
  
Dean woke up promptly at the sound of wings.  
  
Castiel perched on the arm of the couch near his feet, frowning. His wings draped out and around the room: one stretched along the back of the sofa beside Dean; the other curved around Bobby’s desk. Dean had once believed that he would never adjust to Castiel: popping in and out of their lives at whim, misunderstanding human things, displaying powers that even Dean had a hard time comprehending. Now Dean didn’t believe he would ever adjust to Cas-plus-wings, particularly the way they seemed to sprout through his trench coat as though it wasn’t there.  
  
“Learn anything interesting?” Dean grunted, hauling himself into a sitting position and rubbing the back of his neck. Bobby’s couch was even less comfortable than the average motel bed.  
  
“Yes,” Cas answered; his feathers rustled. Dean glanced sideways at the wing nearest him, just before the tip of a feather brushed against the back of his neck and the pain was gone.  
  
“Thanks,” he muttered.  
  
“Joshua agrees with me,” Cas said, turning now to look at Dean, who was distracted by his wing going straight through the window without breaking it. “My wings are tied to my Grace, and my Grace is what healed your soul when I found you in Hell. It’s possible that my Grace has memory of your soul and your soul has memory of my Grace. And souls are quite powerful.”  
  
“Like the healing thing.”  
  
“Yes.” Cas was looking at Dean closely. “You’re feeling all right? No repercussions from healing me?”  
  
“No,” Dean said, shaking his head. “I feel fine.”  
  
“That’s unusual in itself. Typically, there would be some fallout.”  
  
“So why is this all starting now?” Dean asked, frowning. He got to his feet, stretched out his back, and leaned against Bobby’s desk. “If I could heal you with one freakin’ touch, that would’ve been useful when you were going all human on us last year. And saved you from a few comas, while I was at it.”  
  
“My Grace was compromised at that time,” Cas answered. “Joshua thinks that might have...damaged...the connection.”  
  
“Hold up. The _connection_?”  
  
Cas’s lips twinged, just barely, toward a grimace. “It’s a poor word to describe it, but functional. I know what you’re thinking,” Cas added sharply, as if sensing Dean’s overwhelming discomfort, “but I don’t have a direct line into the power of your soul. It doesn’t work that way. I would have to expend much more effort to tap into that kind of...juice, as you call it. No, the healing only worked because you offered it willingly.”  
  
Dean frowned. “Okay. Fine. Good. So compromised Grace means I don’t have any juice, either? Seems a little useless.”  
  
“We won’t face that dilemma again, hopefully,” Cas said. “My Grace is now independent of Heaven; the authority corrupting the connection has been removed.”  
  
“So why not right when you were resurrected?” Dean asked. “Why didn’t I see your wings until now? The timing’s still off.”  
  
“I have theories, but nothing more. As I said, it’s unprecedented.” Cas stood, his wings rising with him.  
  
“Well?” Dean said, staring at him. “Go ahead.”  
  
Castiel gave him an uncertain look, but went on talking. “I’ve always been...aware...that there was some sort of bond,” he said, clearly not pleased to admit it. “The handprint on your shoulder attests to that. I knew it would make you uncomfortable, however, and after failing to appear to you in my true form, I chose to seal it off. I thought that it could potentially injure you. There has never been enough stress on me to open that seal, but it appears to have broken last night. Thus...” Cas gestured at his wings. “It might also explain why you can now hurt me. The connection opens both ways, leaving me vulnerable to you when I wouldn’t have been before.”  
  
Dean frowned more deeply, pushing off from Bobby’s desk. “You’re _stressed_?”  
  
Cas let his gaze fall to the floor; it was such a human thing to do, such a _not-Cas_ thing to do—Cas who stared, Cas whose people skills were always rusty—that Dean’s stomach plummeted in reaction. He was becoming more human again, by the day, by the hour, and Dean couldn’t decide if it was awesome or terrible.  
  
“Heaven is on the brink of civil war,” he said quietly. “I was never meant to be a leader, Dean. And my regret for pulling you back into hunting, for raising your brother without his soul, is crippling.” He said it matter-of-factly, without any proper inflection, and Dean was simultaneously dismayed and relieved that most of the time, Cas still sounded like an angel. “My abilities may be independent of Heaven, but they are now instead compromised by emotion. You once called me a hammer.” His lip twitched. “I have never been further from a hammer than I am now.”  
  
Dean swallowed hard, stepped forward, and reached out a hand to rest on Castiel’s shoulder. He wanted to do more, suddenly longed to prove that Cas’s regret was neither required nor useful, wanted to grab the angel tight and hug the tension out of him. Instead his thumb just pressed, deep, into the flare of Cas’s collarbone, because he couldn’t offer anything else, because the angel wouldn’t understand, because now wasn’t the time.  
  
Cas looked up, tilted his head to the side, and a small smile turned up the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing all you can,” he said quietly, as though he heard Dean’s anxiety, and now that the bond was open, he probably did.  
  
“It’s not enough,” Dean muttered.  
  
“I can’t take you into my war zone, Dean.”  
  
“I know that,” Dean replied, “I know. I’m just sick of this, Cas. I thought we were done. You’ve already died on me twice, man. I don’t want to see if third time’s the charm and it sticks.”  
  
Cas lifted a hand, pressed it over Dean’s on his shoulder, and squeezed. Dean’s pulse jumped and the reassuring warmth of Castiel’s hand stayed, holding tight. He wondered if Cas knew what he was doing, if he understood that his gesture was not really just one of friendship, but couldn’t bring himself to question the angel. He drew too much comfort from the contact to deprive himself of it.  
  
“We’re better equipped than we’ve been in the past,” Cas said, his voice low.  
  
“That’s not saying much,” Dean returned.  
  
“I know,” Cas said, his eyes sad. “But it’s something. This...connection...as loathe as I am to admit it, it may help keep both of us alive. It’s not something I wanted to inflict on you, but now that it’s open, it might act as a tether. If one of us is fatally injured, but the other alive, it’s possible that we’d both survive.”  
  
“How did it happen?” The words left his mouth unbidden; he’d never wanted to know, had never been interested in Castiel’s siege on Hell, but his nightmares had left him craving the story he didn’t remember. He released Cas’s shoulder but didn’t step back. “Hell. How did you find me?”  
  
Cas stared at him for a long, tense moment before he spoke. “It was luck, I think. I used to believe it was fate.” His sudden smile was pained. “I believed that my higher purpose had been discovered, my integral part of Heaven’s plan unearthed. That I was meant to find you. But fate would have been cruel to you, and worse to Sam, and I’ve long since derailed any plan of Heaven’s. It was luck, or strategy, that led me to your light. If my rebellion was an act of free will, then raising you from Hell could not have been fate.”  
  
His blue eyes suddenly shuttered, as though what he remembered was too painful to convey. “My garrison was divided by the fighting. It was truly a siege on Hell to evict you, and we had so few numbers compared to the demons in those depths. I slipped through the chaos, hoping—as I’m sure some other angels hoped—to find you quickly and save us all from the fate of the garrison before ours. And I found you.”  
  
The shutters opened; the pain flooded his blue eyes and Dean suddenly felt it so acutely that it could be nothing but the bond conveying it to him. “I saw how lost you believed you were, how resistant you were to being saved,” Cas said softly, gently, a curious tone similar to the one he’d heard that first night, when Cas had first tilted his head in confusion at Dean. “When I told you I was an Angel of the Lord, you thought I had come to kill you, really kill you. Erase you from existence, burn you out of Hell, burn you out of everything. _Before Alastair returns_ , you said. You stepped back from the soul you were torturing, dropped your tools, spread your arms. _Hurry. Do it._ ” Castiel paused and cleared his throat, looking away from Dean. “I did have to hurry. None of us would last much longer in that Pit. I alerted the other angels, took hold of you, pulled us both out of Hell and into the space between there and this world, where I could heal enough of the damage to your soul to put you back into your body. I don’t think the connection would have formed at all, except...”  
  
Castiel hesitated a beat too long for Dean’s patience. “Except what?” Dean’s heart pounded, leapt; the story sounded so familiar, conjured images and flashes in his mind that might have been Hell, that might have been Castiel.  
  
“Except, you held on.” Cas rolled up the sleeve of his trench coat, pushed up suit jacket and shirt, baring his skin, and there, on his right forearm, was an imprint, an old scar, in the shape of a hand. Appalled, Dean reached out and covered it with his fingers. It fit his hand exactly. “The mark always manifests in that location when I take a vessel, ever since. I used the power of my Grace to heal the damage to your soul, and in return, your soul healed the damage my Grace sustained in Hell. I told you my wings burned on exiting.” Dean nodded, unable to find his voice, his eyes full of that handprint. “They would have regrown in time, but you remade them instantaneously.”  
  
Those words reached Dean; his chin snapped up, eyes darting from Cas’s face to his wings. “I remade them?” he repeated, disbelieving.  
  
“Yes,” Cas answered.  
  
“Why did I make them black?” Dean muttered, eyeing the feathers.  
  
Cas shrugged. It looked awkward, him doing that. “You hardly knew what you were doing, though I suspect that if there was a thought process involved, you must have at least believed that black wings were more _badass_ than the wings that humans typically imagine angels possessing.”  
  
Dean shook his head, unable to stop his smile. “Sure. Maybe. That’s why they’re more like a bird’s wings than Raphael’s?”  
  
“Yes. They were what you imagined them to be.”  
  
Dean didn’t know what do say to that, so he kept quiet, pulling his hand back from the scar on Cas’s forearm.  
  
“I thought, for perhaps obvious reasons, that once you were returned to your body, you would be able to perceive my true form,” Cas continued. “Maybe I went about it the wrong way. I thought that sealing off the connection would be safer for you, but opening it has allowed you to perceive at least part of my true form without any damage at all.” Cas’s confusion manifested as frustration. “It’s very unusual, if not completely unique.”  
  
“And you think this could be a tether,” Dean said slowly. “Keep you alive.”  
  
“Or you. It could.” Castiel’s lip twitched. “I have mentioned that this is unprecedented, right?”  
  
Dean frowned at him and then, disbelieving, watched Cas smirk, the sheer pleasure of it dancing in his eyes. “You’re _joking_ ,” he groaned, but he grinned and couldn’t stop. “You’re being sarcastic. I didn’t even know you had a full grasp on sarcasm.”  
  
“I don’t always,” Cas admitted. “It’s still a shot in the dark most of the time.”  
  
For a moment, they stood grinning at one another. It happened too little not to savor, but eventually, Dean’s smile faded. “I still don’t like this,” he warned. “Nothing’s a guarantee.”  
  
For a moment, Cas’s features twitched toward Sam’s Bitchface #4, an expression that Robo-Sam never made, but that Sam had always used when Dean was being really stubborn about something to make him relent. “Nothing is ever a guarantee, Dean. Isn’t that what free will means? No fate, no destiny—no right or wrong path, just choices and consequences. That’s the risk we take.”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re just the poster boy for angel rebellion these days.”  
  
Castiel smiled. “I learned from the best.” Before Dean could parse whether that was genuine or not, Cas squeezed his shoulder, right over his own handprint scar, and he felt a jolt of warmth, affection, a sincere belonging that left nothing unclear. “I should return to Heaven.”  
  
Dean nodded. “Yeah. Gotta rally the troops.” _Don’t go_ , he wanted to say, but when did he ever get what he wanted?  
  
Cas lifted his chin a fraction to look up at Dean. “You are a good friend.” He paused, tilted his head just slightly to the side. “I’ve lived a very long time, and I don’t believe I’ve ever had a friend as good as you.”  
  
“You’ve had some shit friends, then.,” Dean muttered.  
  
Cas smiled, a little bitterly. “They’re angels. Limited by the very fabric of their beings. They don’t all have you to lead the way.” Cas’s blue eyes were warm and sincere as they looked into his. “I will check in tomorrow. Sleep well.”  
  
Castiel was gone by the time Dean opened his mouth to reply. The warmth of Cas’s palm still lingered on his shoulder, reassuring, and that night he dreamed of a glassy lake, a comfortable chair, a fishing pole, a cold beer, and Cas smiling beside him, the silence between them comfortable and deafening.  
  
  
  
Heaven was quiet.  
  
It was always quiet, these days. The human souls inhabiting the place went about their business silently, unaware of the mounting tensions in their midst, and the angels all moved swiftly, under the radar of opposing forces.  
  
Castiel was growing to loathe it here. It was worse when he’d just left Dean’s company, so warm and reassuring compared to the ice he felt gilding his wings when he landed in Heaven.  
  
“Castiel.”  
  
He turned to see his lieutenant smiling wanly at him. He inclined his head. “Rachel.”  
  
“You have been on Earth,” she observed, falling into step beside him.  
  
“Yes,” he answered. “The Winchesters required my assistance.”  
  
“They are...all right?” she asked hesitantly.  
  
Rachel had struggled with Castiel’s devotion to the Winchesters, but she was slowly coming to understand it; all of his angels were. Ultimately, they believed in Castiel, and they were gradually adopting his conviction to humanity as a result.  
  
He didn’t hope that they would ever be as devoted as him; he doubted it was even a possibility. Dean was the reason for his humanity. Dean was the linchpin in his compassion. No other angel had Dean. It was covetous of him, but he smiled at the thought, pleased by the idea.  
  
They would be devoted enough: devoted to protecting the human race, but never tempted to walk among them, and that was sufficient.  
  
“Fine,” Castiel answered. “Dean was mildly injured. He is safe now.”  
  
“Good,” Rachel said uncertainly. “Have they learned anything new?”  
  
Castiel let out a heavy sigh. “I am afraid there is not much to learn. Their experience is limited. Angels are still new to them.”  
  
They walked, pacing slowly back to their gathered forces.  
  
“Can we truly stand against them, Castiel?” Rachel asked softly.  
  
“We must try.”  
  
“What if...”  
  
“Rachel,” he interrupted gently. “There are some things worth dying for. This is one of those things. I know it is difficult to believe—”  
  
“It isn’t,” she interrupted, her voice earnest. “It truly isn’t, Castiel. You have died twice for this cause; I believe in its righteousness, if only because you are still standing before me. I am...” She hesitated, considering. “I am just afraid.”  
  
“We all are,” Castiel agreed.  
  
A crack of thunder sounded, echoing with a discordant crash.  
  
“Raphael,” Rachel said, tensing beside him.  
  
His knife dropped into his open palm, and he halted in his tracks, waiting. He wondered if this was to be the end, and he thought of the look on Dean’s face when his hand had pressed to the man’s shoulder, thought of the warmth thrilling through him when Dean’s hand gripped gently in his feathers.  
  
“Castiel,” the familiar voice boomed out, but it seemed to transverse Heaven rather than originate from anywhere nearby; Raphael was incapable of locating an angel so easily now, his powers somewhat tarnished by the rent in the Holy Host. “I wish to speak with you alone.”  
  
“Go back to the garrison,” he murmured to Rachel. “Be ready.” She vanished instantly, leaving him alone.  
  
He thought of how Dean would have never obeyed that command; how Dean, loyal to the end, would have faced Raphael with a song of defiance in his heart, firm at Castiel’s side.  
  
“Speak, Raphael,” he called.  
  
When Raphael appeared, he did so with palms raised, a good distance from Castiel. “I’m here to talk only,” he said, his deep voice laced with the crackle of electricity; his wings flared out in webs of lightning.  
  
 _Yours are better_ , Dean’s voice echoed in his head, and Castiel had to suppress a smile.  
  
“As you wish,” Castiel replied, allowing his knife to slide back into his sleeve.  
  
The archangel strode forward. “I must admit, I am impressed, brother,” he said, his features stoic. “I did not believe you would be capable of command.”  
  
“It is not to my taste,” Castiel allowed. “But we do what must be done.”  
  
Raphael smiled. “And must this really be done, Castiel? Must you insist on preventing Paradise?”  
  
“The Apocalypse is what I’m preventing, Raphael.” He grew weary of this argument, weary of the logic that precious few seemed to understand. “You know that.”  
  
“Yes,” Raphael said, a slight smile on his lips. “And, by extension, Paradise. Why are you doing this? Because the Winchester boys told you to?”  
  
“Because God raised me from death to do so,” Castiel returned. “Not once, but twice. You must remember. Lucifer could not have been the one to raise me, after all. You know he was back in his cage by then.”  
  
“So for all your talk of free will, you are still obeying orders,” Raphael mused. “What a good soldier you are.”  
  
“I have no direct commands,” Castiel countered, feeling a flash of irritation. “I am following the path I believe to be the most right. That is free will: a choice made with no guidance.”  
  
“Protecting humanity from mass annihilation is a fruitless enterprise, brother,” Raphael said, shaking his head. “You watched the last century, same as I did. You know what they are capable of. They will kill themselves off, even if we don’t.”  
  
“They might,” Castiel acknowledged. “But that is their affair. Their choice, if you believe in such a thing. You have all of Heaven. Do you truly need Earth, too?”  
  
“I see there is no convincing you,” Raphael said, stepping back.  
  
“No,” Castiel replied. “Nor I you.”  
  
“Then we are truly at war,” Raphael said grimly, “and you and your forces will be laid to waste.”  
  
With another crack of thunder, the archangel was gone.  
  
The night sky of this particular section of Heaven stretched above him, brilliant with stars, a view that could only be seen in the middle of nowhere. This one belonged to an astrophysicist; Castiel could see his telescope in the distance, the man himself stretched out beside it. The spark of his soul was dim, muted, but content. He was unaware of what transpired between the angels around him.  
  
But he, and every other soul in Heaven, would suffer if Raphael was allowed to attack his forces here. He would notice it then, as the very fabric of his eternal rest was rent apart by the archangel’s wrath. Heaven was, and had to remain, the last great refuge; if the war started here, the place would be torn to shreds. The alternative was hardly a better option. After all, hadn’t he just told Dean that he would not take him into combat?  
  
He couldn’t deny, though, that Earth would be better suited for a battleground. Humans would be caught in the crossfire, yes, but not nearly so many souls sacrificed as would be if Castiel and his followers remained here.  
  
He stared up at the outstretched arm of the Milky Way for a long moment, considering. Finally, his mind made up, Castiel strode on to rejoin his forces. They would make their escape from Heaven immediately.  
  
  
  
“They will be watching,” Rachel pointed out, as the solemnity of Castiel’s announcement settled among the angels. “Here, we are protected, but as soon as so many of us breach Heaven’s boundaries...”  
  
“I know,” Castiel answered. “It’s a risk, but one that I believe we must take. We may see our first battle as we remove to Earth.”  
  
Had they been human, they would have stirred, muttered, exchanged looks of anxiety and excitement, but the majority of the angels merely nodded, mute, and grimly accepted the possibility. There were very few among them who would speak out against this plan if they had doubts, and he disliked counting on that, but they had very little time to spare, and very little time to argue.  
  
Inias, though, raised his voice above the silence. “We aren’t ready,” he protested. “Castiel, if they attack, if _Raphael_ attacks, none of us will survive.”  
  
“If Raphael intended to attack personally, he would have killed me during our conversation,” Castiel reassured him.  
  
“Then why didn’t he?” Hester asked. “You were overpowered and alone; why not kill you and end the war now, before it begins?”  
  
“Isn’t it obvious?” Rachel said. “He’s _afraid_ of Castiel. He killed you once,” she pointed out, sharing a small smile with her leader. “He doesn’t know what will happen if he does it again—if Father will bring you back, or perhaps end Raphael himself.”  
  
“But,” Castiel interjected, turning back to Inias and Hester, “that does not prevent Raphael from sending others to deal with us.” The other two nodded, mollified, and stepped back into the ranks of angels. “Go to ground and wait,” he finished. “For now, we must stall Raphael a while longer. Until we are ready to face him.”  
  
He closed his eyes, listening. Heaven was silent with tension, as though anticipating their leaving.  
  
“Now,” he ordered, and together, they flew.  
  
The trajectory from Heaven to Earth was not a simple one, not a matter of up and down, but instead a matter of sliding through different planes, different levels of reality. They flipped by quickly, barely noticeable in the course of flight.  
  
A presence hovering behind them, however, was painfully noticeable. Castiel sensed that Raphael was not with them, but his followers were numerous and powerful enough.  
  
When he landed in a deserted field in South Dakota, he was ready for the battle that ensued.  
  
“Engage!” he roared, and knives dropped into the palms of his fellow angels as they chose their targets.  
  
His opponent had been chosen for him; he recognized the blinding light of Virgil’s righteousness as the angel stalked toward him. Panic lit up Castiel’s mind. If the weapons keeper of Heaven had aligned himself with Raphael, the odds were slotted even more firmly against them.  
  
“Virgil,” he said.  
  
“Castiel,” Virgil returned, moving closer. “Raphael sends his regards.”  
  
“I find it difficult to believe you have aligned yourself with him,” Castiel said, standing his ground.  
  
Virgil’s eyes flashed briefly, clear hatred burning through his Grace. “After Balthazar’s blatant slight against my authority, I saw no other option.”  
  
“Balthazar? Balthazar is dead,” Castiel returned, unnerved by this pronouncement.  
  
“Balthazar is alive,” Virgil hissed. “Balthazar pilfered weapons from Heaven’s stores on _your_ orders—”  
  
But Castiel had heard enough; he moved forward to engage the weapons keeper. His angels fought on around him, engaging more of Raphael’s followers, while he thrust his knife at Virgil. The angel dodged his attack, twisting around to deal a blow of his own, and Castiel dropped bonelessly to the ground, avoiding a fatal strike. A fight like this was too swift to think about, to follow properly; he acted on instinct, rolling back to his feet and out of Virgil’s reach. He had always been exceptional at fighting with angelic blades, and though Virgil was more powerful than him, he could escape this fight with his life intact. He could even escape it beaten to a pulp, so long as he could return to Dean.  
  
He heard the screams of angels dying behind him, but their voices were indistinguishable from one another, and he thought, a little madly, that if he couldn’t tell the deaths of his own from the deaths of the others, then perhaps the battle was already lost.  
  
He slashed out at Virgil, whose blood was drawn on the blade, but it wasn’t nearly a penetrating enough wound to kill him; he lunged back, bulldozing Castiel to the ground. They struggled against one another, Castiel’s heart beating wildly as he held off Virgil’s fist, which struggled to drive a knife into his chest. The force of it scraped him back against the ground, burying dirt and rock into opening wounds on his scalp, twisting his arm up in pain, and then, very suddenly, he heard Dean shout his name.  
  
 _Cas!_  
  
The hunter wasn’t in the clearing, but nonetheless, he was _here_ , somehow: the power of his soul surged through Castiel’s Grace and blasted Virgil away. “Fall back!” the weapons keeper shouted as he regained his footing, his face a bloodied mess. “Retreat!” he bellowed, and Raphael’s angels began to evaporate from the midst of battle, fleeing back to Heaven.  
  
Castiel was left with his followers and the casualties as he slowly stood. Virgil disappeared before him, a last flash of rage, touched by fear, visible in his features.  
  
“Report,” he said finally, hoarsely, as his angels gathered slowly around him, picking their way across the field.  
  
“Five dead,” Rachel replied promptly, appearing at his right. “Two of ours. Three of theirs.”  
  
Castiel nodded. “We fight on,” he said. The battle could scarcely be called a victory, but it wasn’t a defeat, either, and the angel felt a shred of hope. “But for now, the plan is unchanged. Go to ground. Lie in wait. We must stall a while longer.”  
  
“What are we waiting for?” Rachel asked softly.  
  
“I have a plan,” he replied grimly. “Trust me. I will find you when the time is right.”  
  
One by one, his forces vanished, taking flight. At long last, he stood alone in the field and, closing his eyes, listened a moment longer to Dean’s incessant, violent cursing, the sound of the Righteous Man blaspheming him in his mind. With a smile, he opened his wings and flew to Singer Salvage Yard, following the light of Dean’s soul, which suddenly glowed like a forest fire against the landscape of Earth.  
  
Dean was outside, his voice long since hoarse, pacing the dirt lot in the fading afternoon light. He walked forward when Castiel appeared, his stride full of purpose, and before the angel could say anything, he grabbed a fistful of Castiel’s trench coat with his left hand and rooted his right hand in the wing extended toward him. Castiel shuddered in reaction as the full blast of Dean’s soul poured through him, knitting his injuries in an instant, but Dean’s expression was still furious.  
  
“What the _fuck_ was that?” Dean roared, giving Castiel a shake that nearly lifted the angel from the ground. “Were you _seriously_ engaging in the first battle of the goddamn _Holy Civil War_ without _warning_ me first?!”  
  
“It was unexpected,” Castiel returned, trying to stretch out a hand to touch Dean’s shoulder, but the man shook him again, deterring him.  
  
“Do _not_ pull that calming touch crap on me,” Dean snarled. “I don’t want to be _calmed_. You just came uncomfortably close to dying and I got to be the backseat power generator to the whole thing, so I want some fucking answers, Cas!”  
  
“I haven’t been allowed to say anything yet,” Castiel said helplessly, shooting a desperate look over Dean’s shoulder; Sam and Bobby were perched on the hood of the Impala, Sam smirking, Bobby watching with raised eyebrows.  
  
“He doesn’t want to listen,” Sam pointed out helpfully. “He wants to shout at you some more.”  
  
“Shut up, Sam!” Dean barked, his eyes never leaving Castiel’s face.  
  
“We decided to leave Heaven,” Castiel said, hoping that if he started talking, Dean would allow him enough time to explain. “Very suddenly. Raphael confronted me and made it clear that he intended on inciting battle in the very near future. I realized the repercussions for the souls in Heaven if war was allowed to break out there.”  
  
Dean’s hold in his trench coat had slackened. “What repercussions?”  
  
“Raphael would not hesitate to tear apart the very fabric of Heaven in the midst of all-out war,” Castiel said. “If Heaven is destroyed, there is no refuge for any human soul. I do not know where the souls would go—Purgatory and Hell, for example, are options, but—that could not be allowed.”  
  
Dean’s features had softened, his grip slackened. “You left Heaven,” he said quietly, “to save the souls.”  
  
“It isn’t as permanent as you think,” Castiel returned. “If we win this war, the others will be free to return.”  
  
Dean seemed about to continue on this line of questioning, but shook his head and let it go. “And Raphael’s guys caught up with you on your way out?”  
  
“He sent Virgil,” Castiel explained quickly, “the...the armorer of Heaven. He guards the weapons. Weapons we desperately need.”  
  
“And that was the one pinning you down.”  
  
“What did you see?” Castiel asked, frowning. The worst of his friend’s rage seemed to have passed, replaced instead by a boneless relief. “I heard your voice...”  
  
“I heard you,” Dean said, his grip now just barely a loose touch on Castiel’s chest and wing. “The instant you were back on Earth, I think, I heard you. It wasn’t really seeing, it was just—I just knew what was going on.”  
  
Sam suddenly began to crow with laughter from the hood of the Impala. “I’m sorry,” he gasped out, when both Castiel and Dean turned to glare at him, “I’m sorry, it’s just...this whole thing, it’s just too weird, man. What the fuck is up with our family, anyway? I’m an ex-demon-blood junkie destined to be _Lucifer’s_ vessel, walking around _without a soul,_ and now you’re sharing brainspace with an Angel of the Freakin’ Lord, and it’s not Michael and he isn’t driving you. It’s fucking _nuts_.”  
  
Bobby’s mustache twitched toward what might have been a smile while Sam laughed, doubled over with his arms clutching his stomach. “He has a point,” he allowed.  
  
Dean sighed and turned back to Castiel. “So, what? The battle’s coming to Earth now? Thought that wasn’t part of the plan. What if Raphael decides to fry all of humanity down here? Kind of the same thing as Heaven, right?”  
  
“No,” Castiel said, aware that he was on the verge of babbling; the giddy aftermath of a survived battle had begun to catch up with him. “No, the Earth is untouchable by anyone but Michael, and _only_ in the event of his battle with Lucifer. We can do a lot of things, but there are absolute limits on our powers, especially when such a rift exists in the Holy Host and no particular faction is in power. The vessel rule, for instance. When it comes to humans...”  
  
“...God hard-wired you with a ‘do not destroy’ button,” Dean said, nodding. “Okay. I’ve got it. So who the hell is Balthazar, why is he stealing weapons, why did they think it was on _your_ orders, and why did you think he was dead?”  
  
Castiel let out a long breath of air. “Because he was,” he said, and Dean’s eyebrows raised in reaction. “Or, at least, he appeared to be, and he was very convincing about it. But Balthazar was always...well. Funny.”  
  
“Funny,” Dean repeated, skeptical.  
  
“He must have faked his death,” Castiel continued, irked at the thought. Balthazar had been a close friend, and Castiel had been deeply unhappy at the news of his demise. “Our friendship is known; he was part of my garrison. I’m sure Raphael assumed that his actions were being guided by me. Why he decided to steal weapons from Heaven, I can’t say, but it is imperative that I find him.”  
  
“You think the weapons could be used against Raphael?” Dean asked, hope lighting briefly in his green eyes, still fixed on Castiel’s face.  
  
“A few of them, yes,” Castiel answered. “I’m not certain that he has them, but at the very least, he has broken into the armory before, and he is an old friend. If I ask him for help, he will comply.”  
  
Dean straightened the trench coat that he had wrenched askew through the numerous shakings, and then released his grip on Castiel.  
  
“Okay,” he said, gesturing for Castiel to follow him into the house. “How do we find him?”  
  
Sam was still snickering as they made their way inside.


	5. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Word to the wise, though, Cas—I wouldn’t get any closer, or he might rub off on you. Humans. They have a habit of doing that. And you’re already human enough.”

He tried to tell himself it was better now, now that he and Cas had had it out and he’d made his ugly kind of peace with the soulless clone of his brother. For moments—and sometimes, for hours—it was true. But there were other moments, and other hours, when Dean lied through his teeth, when he couldn’t even look at Sam ( _the thing that_ wasn’t _Sam_ ), when Cas’s guilt and concern stretched through their bond and wore him thin, and he was already ground down, so tired, so _finished_.  
  
Half the time he wished he’d been the one to take the swan dive. He knew Hell, knew the simple rules and the mindless dance, and he would’ve spared his little brother, if only. If only mom had made the deal for a different son, if only the angels had cast him in a different role, the role he could’ve made a sacrifice in. He watched Sam fall into that Pit every time he closed his eyes, and his worst nightmares of torturing souls in Hell just didn’t compare to that. The thing that had clawed its way out of Lucifer’s cage just reminded him, more painfully, more horribly, of what he had lost. More painfully, more horribly, of what Sam was enduring inside that cage, and he hadn’t lifted a finger so far to change it.  
  
It made him sick, kept him awake, made his bad hours one long string of exhaustion, panic, and the occasional trip to the bathroom to throw up whatever he’d barely managed to eat that day. He told himself that he’d survived, he’d survived forty years in the Pit, and Sammy was made of stronger stuff than him, he had time, the war would end soon and they could focus on getting Sam the fuck out of there, but that didn’t make it any easier to do what he had to do, to handle one problem at a time when all he could imagine was Lucifer, cutting into Sam until he screamed the way he did in Dean’s nightmares...  
  
His hands shook as he picked up the bottle of whiskey from the ground and took a long pull. The alcohol barely took the edge off, but it kept him sane enough, made his muscles obey, made his sharp, poisonous thoughts blur into a haze of feeling, and that was easier.  
  
“One of those characters is a little off.”  
  
Dean looked up, squinted through the too-bright glaze of the Impala’s headlights reflecting off Bobby’s windows, and glanced back down at the piece of paper secured to the hood of his car. “Shit,” he muttered. “This is an alien fucking language to me, Cas.”  
  
“Not alien,” Cas corrected patiently, taking the paintbrush from him. “Just foreign. I’ll fix it.”  
  
“You sure it’s a good idea, anyway?” Dean asked, wiping his hands off on a rag and leaning back on the Impala. “You won’t ever be able to come in.”  
  
Cas hovered in mid-air—his wings eerily still rather than flapping to keep him aloft—and quickly repainted the symbol that Dean had gotten wrong.  
  
“I don’t believe that will be the case,” Cas said finally, coming back to ground level. “Our...connection. It should allow me to enter, even when other angels are barred access.” He turned and handed Dean the paintbrush, avoiding his eyes. Dean frowned, watching him. “The Enochian warding on your ribs has already failed in that regard,” Cas continued, leaning back against the Impala beside Dean.  
  
“Failed?” Dean repeated. “What does that mean?”  
  
Cas glanced at him, the discomfort on his face palpable, and looked away again. “The sigils are still there,” he muttered. “You soul shines through. Since my escape from Heaven, I’ve been able to see it again. I forgot how bright it is.”  
  
“You can see...” Dean’s voice came out strangled; he took a deep breath and cleared his throat, trying to reinstate some sense of calm. He pushed away from the hood of the Impala, putting space between him and Cas, stomach churning again. “It’s opening further. The connection. Is that what you’re saying?”  
  
Cas watched him, a little helplessly, as he paced. “Yes,” he said, unhappily. “You’re getting louder. The confrontation with Virgil hastened the process. I couldn’t see you before then; you were still hidden by the Enochian warding.”  
  
“Well, make it stop!” This time, his voice was unintentionally loud. “I’m all for healing you, Cas, I’m even all for being able to see your wings without frying my eyes, and a tether is good, fantastic, in fact, but my _soul_ , I mean—”  
  
“What are you afraid of me seeing?” Cas barked suddenly, interrupting him. He pushed away from the hood of the Impala, too, all traces of worry gone, his features tight with anger. “Do you think that I’m not already intimately familiar with your soul, Dean? You have nothing to hide from me, nothing that I haven’t already seen.”  
  
Dean opened his mouth and closed it again, grinding down on his teeth, trying to steady himself, but the attempt failed miserably. The truth was that there was plenty Cas didn’t know, plenty more than the worst of those moments missing Sam, but he wasn’t ready to confront it yet, didn’t have the space in him to even consider it now, and he didn’t need Cas poking around it, trying to untangle it because he was _curious_. Dean’s breaking point had never been so perilously close, his nerves had never been frayed so fine, and he had lived through Lucifer rising and his brother hopped up on demon blood and losing his dad in a bargain for his life but this was that extra level of worse he’d been bracing for, and he didn’t have the room for it.  
  
“You don’t know that,” he said finally, forcing his voice quiet. “There’s plenty that’s changed since you raised me from Hell.”  
  
Cas’s rage faded as quickly as it had come, and Dean hoped that wasn’t the result of hearing his turmoil. His features twisted with sympathy as he looked at Dean. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice gentle but stern. “I can’t discern anything specific, not unless I pry. I catch passing glimpses of your thoughts, but your mind is incoherent at the best of times. I’m not digging anywhere you don’t want me to be. Your soul is just light to me—bright, vivid, yes, but incomprehensible at present.”  
  
“Fine,” Dean said shortly. “Let’s keep it that way.”  
  
Cas tilted his head, puzzled, opened his mouth to say something, but Dean cut him off. “Any luck finding Balthazar?” he asked, leaning into the Impala to cut the engine. The dark that followed was blinding, suffocating; he tilted his head back to look at the stars, keeping the distance between him and Cas. The angel still stood just in front of the hood, and he could feel him there even if his sight was subpar.  
  
“No,” Cas said, the frustration in his voice doubled by the surge of it at the back of Dean’s mind. “The ritual has failed several times now. If he truly is alive, then he’s done something creative to stay hidden; it must be the only way that he’s stayed safe from Raphael for so long.”  
  
“Should’ve taken a leaf out of his book,” Dean muttered, snagging his whiskey from the hood and taking another drink. He felt Cas look at him, the steady, puzzling gaze that cut even through the dark. “Relax,” he added, folding his arms over his chest and settling back against the door. He let his head fall back against the roof. “I’m not suggesting anything.”  
  
“Dean,” and the angel’s voice was gentle, _gentle_ , and it made Dean’s rage surge up because nothing could soothe him, not here, not now, “perhaps you should rest.”  
  
“Nah,” Dean said, but he did close his eyes, at least, because his head was swimming and his stomach kept churning and the absolute black helped some. “There’s a lot to do.”  
  
“And you currently aren’t capable of doing any of it.”  
  
His eyes snapped open, even if it did make the world rock violently. “I’m fine,” he said, too sharply.  
  
Cas backpedaled. “I know. What I meant is, you’ve done all you can.”  
  
“Doesn’t make me feel any better, Cas.”  
  
“Would hunting make you feel better?”  
  
Dean turned his head to look at the angel. “What?” he said, confused.  
  
Cas looked miserable, he realized, and now that he’d noticed, he could feel the misery, too, drifting through the haze in his mind. “I can feel it,” Cas confessed, his shoulders hunched. Dean could only see his profile, but the angel was half-crumpled into himself, his features stiff with tension. “You’re half out of your mind with grief and fear, and it...it makes me unhappy. I don’t know what to do with...this.” He gestured vaguely at his chest.  
  
“You’re askin’ the wrong guy,” Dean snorted. “Does it seem like I know what to do with it?”  
  
“You drown in it,” Cas answered, without thought. “I’ve felt it drowning you since Hell. It comes and goes, washes up and recedes, but it’s never been so terrible, so heavy. I don’t know if it’s the bond, or if you’re truly more...more _broken_ than ever, but I feel it, and it’s...I want to help, and I don’t know how.”  
  
“No one cares if I’m broken,” Dean said, flat.  
  
“That’s insane,” Cas retaliated, his voice heated. “Bobby cares, _I_ care—”  
  
“Cas, it’s rhetorical. Metaphorical. Whatever.” He looked away from Cas’s profile, the shoulders hunched tight in desolation, and back to the stars. “It means the world doesn’t stop just because I’m fucked up and tired. Never has, never will. It’ll only stop if I get too broken to do my damn job, and I’m not.”  
  
“The weight’s not on you, Dean,” Cas said, insisted, his low voice earnest. “This war, all of this, it’s on me.”  
  
Dean barked a laugh, head falling back against the roof of his car with a dull thud. “Can’t turn off my loyalties, man,” he said, and the words felt a bit hysterical. “Weight’s always on me when the world ending is involved—when family’s involved. I can’t separate myself like that. If you can, well.” He drank down a gulp of whiskey, feeling it burn all the way to his roiling stomach. “I don’t know if I’m jealous or disgusted.”  
  
Cas was quiet. “I could, once,” he said finally. “I didn’t have anything to separate, I guess.”  
  
“But not anymore,” Dean said, an unasked question in there on his numb lips.  
  
“No,” Cas answered, both grim and relieved. “I can’t.”  
  
“Good,” Dean told him, even if there was nothing good about it, and then, because he needed to derail this before he couldn’t look back on this conversation without cringing, he asked, “do you hear that?”  
  
Cas tilted his head, rose up from the hood of the Impala with a frown. “Yes. That’s—”  
  
Dean barely had time to duck before the explosion hit, barely twenty yards away, sending up a handful of old junkers in a blaze; he covered his head with his hands even as he felt Cas’s wing brush by him, shielding him from the debris that went flying. The roar was deafening, loud enough to leave his ears ringing in the aftermath.  
  
“Raphael?” Dean shouted above the scream of collapsing vehicles.  
  
“No,” Cas replied, frowning at the crumbling blaze. Dean could just barely feel the heat of the fire; Cas’s wings seemed to shield him from most of it. “Stay here,” he ordered.  
  
“No, Cas, no way, don’t—”  
  
But Cas pushed him hard enough to knock him flat on the ground and by the time Dean struggled up, cursing at the impact those feathers had made, Cas was already emerging from the fire, supporting a lone, dazed figure. The man was thin, face lightly lined, sandy hair streaked with gray, an arm clutched around his ribs as he tried to straighten and throw Cas’s support off.  
  
“I’m fine,” he gasped out, and as they approached, Dean saw how glazed his eyes were.  
  
“Sure stuck that landing,” Dean muttered, and his gaze swept up to fasten on Dean; even unfocused, it was unnerving, and Dean suddenly understood why before Cas even spoke.  
  
“This is Balthazar,” Cas said, half-annoyed.  
  
“This must be Dean,” Balthazar wheezed out with a pained grin. “You gave Raphael’s lapdog quite a scare, there, mate.”  
  
Dean frowned. “How does he know?” he said to Cas, eyeing Balthazar suspiciously.  
  
“He was raving about it when he came to kick the shit out of me,” the angel replied, grimacing now. “I suppose it made him feel better.”  
  
“Bobby’s yard is on fire,” Dean pointed out. Cas pushed Balthazar to lean against the Impala’s trunk, then turned and flattened the flames with one massive sweep of his wings.  
  
Bobby emerged from the house just as the fire went out. He stared at his salvage yard for a few seconds before stomping down the steps, shaking his head. “What now?” he demanded as he approached the Impala.  
  
“That friend of Cas’s we’ve been looking for,” Dean said, gesturing to the trunk. “Crash landed in your lot.”  
  
“My apologies,” Balthazar managed. “I would offer to get you new cars, but yours appear to be junk, anyway.”  
  
Dean thought he saw Bobby roll his eyes, just as Sam banged out the back door too. “For crying out loud,” Dean muttered. “I’m glad you don’t have any neighbors, Bobby.”  
  
“I have attempted to locate you and to summon you,” Cas said, turning back from the flames to Balthazar as Sam blinked at the destruction. Dean was happy not to be on the receiving end of Cas’s glare; Balthazar seemed to flinch back from it. “I was made to understand that you were dead. Explain. Now.”  
  
“Oh, come on,” Balthazar protested, prodding gently at his ribs as he straightened up. “Look, I _am_ sorry I couldn’t tell you, but I was up to my neck in it as it stood. I don’t want to be...involved...in all this.” He gestured around to encompass all of them. “All that fighting, and it was just going to go right on, Winchesters and free will be damned. I was doing a damn good job keeping out of it, too, until you went and summoned me, and you thought they wouldn’t _hear_ that? Raphael may not be what he was before you staged your little revolution, but he can still see that kind of spellwork if he’s watching for it, and I’ve been running for days trying to avoid him, because of _you_.”  
  
“It is chaos in Heaven,” Cas said, his voice flat. “I had little other choice. My allies are few.”  
  
“No kidding,” Balthazar mumbled, glancing sideways at Dean, who stared back stonily. “And now it’s chaos down here. Did you have to bring it _here_ , Cas?”  
  
“We can’t risk Heaven being torn apart,” Cas argued. “Raphael—”  
  
“—is raving. No kidding.” Balthazar laughed, a short, brief sound. “But what are you going to do about it, Castiel? Dad didn’t bring you back an archangel. Even with Dean here running backup, you’re no match for him.”  
  
“We could be,” Cas replied. “If we had more firepower.”  
  
“No,” Balthazar said immediately. “No, I like my weapons, thanks, I’ll keep them. I’ve been running Raphael’s dogs ragged just to keep the bloody things safe—”  
  
“Why steal them to begin with?” Cas asked, brow furrowed. “If you truly wanted to disappear—”  
  
“Yes, you’re right,” Balthazar said impatiently. “I got cocky. I just wanted to stick it to them a bit, before I vanished into the ether, you know? Never liked Virgil,” he added in Dean’s direction, who snorted. “Stupid ponce, that one.”  
  
“Balthazar, we need those weapons.”  
  
Balthazar sighed. “They wouldn’t do you any good,” he said bluntly. “I didn’t steal anything that would work against an archangel, you know. They don’t just leave those lying about. I mean, I have Lot’s Salt, sure, but that would really buy you very little time overall—”  
  
“Then you know where the rest of the weapons are,” Cas said impatiently. The angel radiated displeasure and betrayal; Dean felt it, low and heavy, resonating through him. It was strange, how he had begun to experience Cas’s emotions, how he had begun to experience Cas’s _history_ , and there was a history here, with this angel. He knew without having to ask that this was as close as Cas’s friends got before him, that this was all the loyalty and companionship he’d once had, and he could feel how it rankled Cas that Balthazar had faked his death and let Cas grieve.  
  
“No. No, thank you. I hate Virgil and I’d hate him killing me even more.”  
  
“You know, you might as well tell us,” Dean advised. “They know you’re alive. The only protection you really have is Cas and his army.”  
  
“We could stop all this,” Cas urged. “If we could defeat Raphael, the fighting will end, Balthazar.”  
  
“No, it won’t,” the angel snapped, his tone suddenly sharp. “It will never stop, Cas. You’ve seen them. You’ve seen everything I’ve seen. They’re always coming up with something, and I’m bloody tired of it. How long do you think it will be—if you do manage to kill Raphael—before someone takes his place? Before someone else starts another bloody revolution? It’s not as if Dad’s coming back to break it up.”  
  
Cas remained silent, staring at Balthazar with disappointment until the other shifted uncomfortably.  
  
“We fought together,” he said quietly. “For thousands of years, Balthazar, we fought side by side. You know that your little...temper tantrum...could cost me my life. Do you want that on your conscience?”  
  
Balthazar shot a glare at Dean, who had managed to scale his shit-eating grin down to a smirk. It was good, he reflected, having that guilt-tripping voice directed at someone, anyone else. “Fine,” Balthazar said, his voice sliding into a sulk. “Fine, Cas, but it’s a fool’s errand.”  
  
“We’ll see,” Cas replied smoothly, and Dean felt the angel radiate a brief hope before it was quickly stifled. _Damn straight_ , he thought grimly. _We’re not out of the woods yet._  
  
  
  
Dean’s dreams were restless again.  
  
It wasn’t a surprise to Castiel. He doubted that Dean would ever fully recover from Hell; they had left him too long in the Pit for that to be a possibility. He coped; the Righteous Man fought on with dark circles under his eyes and sarcastic humor and too much coffee to make up for the many hours of missing sleep. Castiel had rarely been distracted by it before—Dean could handle his nightmares—but now that the bond between them was open, he saw them at the back of his mind, the flickering shadows and flames that occasionally reformed into faces and voices. And the pain, the lingering, horrible pain.  
  
He still remembered the weeks when Dean had dreamed, near-constantly, of torturing him on the rack. At least these nightmares were not so vivid.  
  
“You’re horrid at multitasking,” Balthazar’s voice mused.  
  
“I apologize,” Castiel returned, freeing himself of Dean’s visions.  
  
“We’re finished, anyway, I believe,” Balthazar said, pushing off from the mangled car he’d been leaning against. “Word to the wise, though, Cas—I wouldn’t get any closer, or he might rub off on you. Humans. They have a habit of doing that. And you’re already human enough.”  
  
 _Human enough_. No, Castiel would never be human enough. He ached for it in the bones that weren’t truly his, but he would never be human enough. He looked away from Balthazar, toward the house, where, in spite of the Enochian lining the walls and windows, he could see the light of Dean’s soul, flickering with despair. He hadn’t spoken to the man today, had spent it instead searching out his angels and spreading their plan; when he’d returned, Balthazar in tow, Dean was in a state of collapse, crumpled into unconsciousness rather than anything resembling sleep on the couch in Bobby’s den, and Castiel longed to reach down and erase the nightmares, but there was only so much he could do.  
  
“You poor bastard,” Balthazar said, pity in his voice, sympathy twisting his features. “How long have you been in love with him?”  
  
Castiel glanced sharply at his brother, a frown already deepening his features. “I do _not_ —”  
  
“Oh, come now, Cas. Denial doesn’t suit you.” Balthazar smirked, but the pity stayed in his eyes.  
  
“We weren’t made to express affection,” Castiel reminded him, though he knew it was a weak defense. Balthazar had still been a part of his garrison, after all, when he had first been— _rehabilitated_ —for exhibiting emotion.  
  
“No, we weren’t,” Balthazar agreed. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t feel it. And you, Angel of Thursday, have been too bloody close to them _not_ to feel it.” He frowned, followed Castiel’s gaze to the house, and shuffled with unease. “When did it start?”  
  
Castiel didn’t answer for a long moment. The shadows in Dean’s dreams had become formless, his distress eased momentarily. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I have always been...partial...to Dean.” Balthazar snorted. “He is a good man,” Castiel defended, frowning at his friend. “And there are so few of them.”  
  
“The Righteous Man,” Balthazar mused. “I must admit, I expected someone a bit more like Job. He was a fine chap. Winchester...” He shrugged, an exasperated gesture. “Can’t fall in line, you know. Resentful. Always starting something. Always shaking up the natural order of things. If he’d just done what they asked...”  
  
“No,” Castiel interrupted, because the memory of it still made his Grace grieve: Dean broken and done, ready to say _yes_ to Michael, not feeling one inch better for that decision, just _finished_. “Dean made the right choice.”  
  
Balthazar eyed him for a long moment, sympathy and amusement making a bid for control of his features. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said at last. “It’s not as if things would really have been better. Michael prancing about all proud of himself and Raphael making the occasional subversive bid for control...” He sighed. “I sometimes think Lucifer had the right idea, you know. In the spirit of the thing, obviously. It’s why I ran away. Aren’t you sick of all of them, Cas?”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel answered. “Why do you think I’m here?”  
  
“I don’t actually know,” Balthazar retaliated. “You know that if you win this little war of yours, it’s all going to be on your plate. The whole lot of them.”  
  
“No,” Castiel replied. “It won’t. When this is over— _if_ I survive—I’m done.”  
  
“Done,” Balthazar repeated. “You can’t be _done_. You care far too much to leave Heaven in anyone else’s hands, at the end.”  
  
“That is the point, though,” Castiel said grimly. “It isn’t supposed to be _left_ to anyone. Do you think that my resurrection was a mistake? Twice, an archangel ripped me to shreds, and twice, I was made whole again—all after I’d rebelled, all _after_ I’d cast my lot in with the Winchesters, after I’d turned my back on our orders. Our Father would see the hierarchy dissolved. I will not become an overseer, like Raphael. I will step down. We need only to make the angels understand that interference on Earth is unacceptable, and then Heaven will cease to be governed.”  
  
“To what?” Balthazar asked, though by the look in his eyes, he already knew. “What would you step down to, Cas?”  
  
Castiel turned to look, once again, toward the light of Dean’s soul. He was waking up, shaken out of his dreams by a particular shock, a specific shadow. Castiel felt him rise, his muscles aching from the broken-in couch, reaching mindlessly for his boots.  
  
“Human,” Balthazar said, horrified and amazed all at once. “You’d become human.”  
  
Castiel let the silence be his answer, watching Dean traipse slowly to the kitchen, searching out a beer and a distraction.  
  
“You’d...die,” Balthazar pointed out, baffled. “Your vessel has forty, fifty years left, tops. Much less, if you insist on traipsing after _him_ for the remainder of your time.”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel said, nodding. “I know.”  
  
“Well,” Balthazar muttered, and paused, as if he didn’t know how to continue. “You always were a little weird.”  
  
Castiel raised his eyes to the stars. “Thank you,” he said wearily.  
  
Balthazar smirked; the expression faded just as quickly as it had come. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Make sure they’re ready.” He glanced toward the house. “I believe this is a time where a last-night-on-Earth speech might actually work.”  
  
“Balthazar,” Castiel said, warning in his voice, but he couldn’t help the small smile that moved his lips.  
  
“Just trying to help, Cas.” The back door opened and Dean stomped out, making a beeline for the Impala. “That’s my cue.”  
  
Balthazar was gone in a rustle of wings. Dean stared at the ground as he approached, a cold beer cracked open in his hand, a scowl settled into his features. South Dakota, it appeared, was in the midst of a heat wave; he wore only a t-shirt and jeans, and the shirt was already streaked with sweat. His short hair was ruffled from sleep, and it stuck up even further after he ran his hand over it.  
  
Castiel looked down, away from the brightness of his soul, away from the visage of the man himself. The bond didn’t close, though, and he could feel Dean nearby, his warmth radiating outward despite his pain. Castiel felt a flash of pleasure, dissolving to confusion, when Dean spotted him leaning against the hood of the Impala.  
  
“Cas,” he said in greeting. “Didn’t know you were around.”  
  
Confusion bled into unease when Castiel didn’t respond. Dean strode closer; Castiel watched his shoes come into view.  
  
“Hey,” Dean said, his voice gruff, hand reaching out to circle around Castiel’s shoulder. The warmth of the human bled into him, soothing. “Everything good? Look at me, Cas.”  
  
Castiel didn’t resist; he looked up, into Dean’s green eyes, washed with concern.  
  
“You should be sleeping,” Castiel said, though without any real insistence in his voice. Dean’s company quelled his anxieties, and he was at greater peace when his charge wasn’t fighting his way through nightmares.  
  
Dean grimaced. “Not tired.” Castiel didn’t comment on the blatant lie. Dean was always tired. “Why are you out here, anyway? You could come in.”  
  
“I was speaking with Balthazar,” Castiel said. “We’ve alerted the other angels to our plan.”  
  
Dean nodded, his hand still light on Castiel’s shoulder. He was close, closer than Dean usually allowed them to be, without a single quip about _personal space_ ; he hadn’t commented on that recently, Castiel realized belatedly. Since their fight—since the bond had ripped wide open—Dean’s physical proximity had come closer than it ever had, and Castiel had noticed how much more _muted_ Dean’s pain was when they were close.  
  
It was never gone. At times, Castiel despaired that it would ever be gone. But lessened would suffice, for now, and lessen it did. Dean was comforted, and he was glad.  
  
“You look even more grim than usual,” Dean commented.  
  
“I don’t relish the idea of breaking into Heaven’s armory,” Castiel replied honestly.  
  
“Could be our last night on Earth,” Dean agreed casually, and Castiel wondered, suddenly, if he had heard the entire conversation with Balthazar. He wasn’t certain whether he should hope for Dean’s ignorance or not. “Again.” He considered it for a moment and then grinned at Castiel. “I guess I shouldn’t try to get you laid.”  
  
A mixture of disappointment and relief flooded him; Castiel chuckled softly. “No,” he answered. “I do not wish to visit another Den of Iniquity. I thought I’d just...”  
  
“Sit here quietly,” Dean finished for him. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before.” The hunter smiled, affection unfurling in his gaze, and Castiel stared up into it, letting it be a balm to his stressful contemplation of tomorrow, dulling the anxiety. Dean patted him on the shoulder. “Scoot over. We’ve done it my way, guess we can do it yours. Fuck knows we’ll get another shot at it, somehow.”  
  
Castiel obliged, moving over to make room for Dean on the hood of the Impala. He sat down close, his shoulder pressed to Castiel’s, and took a drink of his beer, downing half of it at once. At least, Castiel thought, it wasn’t whiskey. They sat quietly, watching the stars inch slowly across the sky. Dean’s soul seemed to bleed into Castiel’s Grace; the handprint on his shoulder pressed close enough to feel, like a living thing, against him. Contentment stole through him. Slowly, he felt Dean relax beside him, too, until the usual tension in his shoulders had all but dissolved.  
  
“Me and Sammy used to do this,” Dean said abruptly, his voice gravelly from disuse half an hour later. “Middle of nowhere, when we couldn’t find a motel room. Just stopped somewhere and looked at the stars until we were tired enough to sleep in the car.” He finished his beer with a final gulp and dropped the bottle to the ground. Castiel listened, quiet, as Dean rasped a hand over his jaw. “He always bitched about it, too. Kid’s too damn tall.”  
  
Castiel huffed out another laugh, hesitantly, because the sound and feel was still so new, and Dean smiled, a little bitterly, but his eyes were warm. Castiel didn’t miss that Dean talked about his brother in the past tense, as though Sam was still dead; it was true, in its own way, and Castiel hated that he had complicated it, hated that he had been foolish enough to make things worse with his misguided good intentions.  
  
“Cas,” Dean said, bumping his shoulder. “It’s not okay. But you wouldn’t be a Winchester if you didn’t do somethin' stupid tryin’ to bring somebody back from the dead.” His eyes found Castiel’s, reassuring, oddly peaceful. It was a balm, a relief, in the midst of the misery he’d felt from Dean in the last few weeks. “We’ll fix it. We always do.”  
  
Castiel didn't miss that he had been called a Winchester, either; Dean could bestow no higher honor.  
  
"Thank you," Castiel said quietly, because nothing else could be said to that pronouncement. The welling of gratitude at Dean's forgiveness—at his pure _acceptance_ —couldn't be truly expressed, but he was certain the hunter felt it, and perhaps that was enough.  
  
Dean wasn’t made of stone; nor was he made to sit quietly for another four hours. He fell asleep, eventually, head drooping onto Castiel’s shoulder, and the angel, uncertain, wrapped an arm and a wing around the human, drawing him close, fending off his nightmares with the light touch of his Grace. Dean didn’t wake up; he turned his face into Castiel’s neck and sank back into the angel’s wing, heavy with sleep. Castiel let his head fall against Dean’s, inhaled the scent of sweat and skin, and listened to his heart beat, strong and slow.  
  
He watched the sky move, and listened to Dean breathe, and thought that if this was his last night on Earth, he was at least exactly where he wanted to be.


	6. Winter Chills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ll be able to use me, though,” Dean said. Sam smirked briefly. “Mind out of the gutter,” Dean grumbled. “My soul. You’ll be able to use my soul if there’s a firefight.”

Dean woke up to the sun shining red through his eyelids and soft rustling noises nearby. Ignoring this, he attempted to turn his face deeper into his pillow—but it didn’t feel like a pillow or even a couch cushion, too unyielding, too rigid. It was more like a shoulder.  
  
His eyes snapped open. It was a shoulder. It was definitely a shoulder.  
  
There was an arm and a wing wrapped around him and he was slumped half-sideways, and it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. It wasn’t uncomfortable at all, actually. No stiff neck, no morning headache. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up without a headache. It stank of angel-mojo.  
  
 _Shit_. He’d fallen asleep on Cas. Literally. The angel was too damn comfortable for his own good and Dean was simultaneously embarrassed and grateful. He shifted, eyes opening to find the perpetually-stubbled line of Cas’s jaw, and swallowed thickly. Cas stared off toward the sunrise, watching the sky turn pink. He breathed in, and Cas smelled like the ground did after it had just rained, angel layering over human undertones, and, _God_ , it was too fucking early for this. For a moment, he just breathed, trying to calm the sudden spike in his heartbeat, letting his eyes slide closed again. The angel’s wing tightened against his shoulder and arm, and the soft, liquid feathers only reminded him of Hell briefly; instead, they made him feel safe, almost whole, and he hadn’t had coffee yet so maybe that was where the problem was in his chaotic internal monologue.  
  
It wasn’t the time. It would never be the time. They would always be fighting some world-ending war and Dean would never get the chance to stand still long enough to figure out what, exactly, he wanted from Cas. The angel _meant_ something but Dean had never been sure _what_ , hadn’t had time to untangle the pleasure he got from his company and the irritation when the angel was away, knew that it felt like something _more_ but the thought of that made him back away with both palms raised, even if it did feel different: more raw than his passion with Cassie, closer than his distant affection for Lisa.  
  
Maybe he would never be allowed to think it through. Maybe Cas would go out in a blaze of glory and he would spend the rest of his short, miserable life being haunted by moments like these, dogged by the soulless shell of his brother, wishing he’d never been saved in the first place.  
  
Or maybe they would both live, and they would miraculously evict Sam’s soul from the box, and Cas would become human, and then he’d have to confront all this confusion without distractions. He wasn’t sure which option he hated more.  
  
He was sure, though, that he’d had enough introspection for an entire week, let alone one morning, so he opened his eyes and tipped back his chin to look up at Cas. “Mornin’,” he said.  
  
The blue eyes turned to meet his. “Good morning,” Cas replied, his expression somber.  
  
“Sorry I fell asleep on you.” With a grunt, he hauled himself upright. Cas’s arm dropped from his shoulders, but the wing remained, shielding Dean from the already-scorching heat. “How was...you know.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, yawning. He might’ve felt more rested than usual, but he had a feeling that even angel-mojo couldn’t repair a lifetime of sleep deprivation.  
  
Cas took a moment to respond. Dean could feel him mulling it over, the dull thrum of pleasure easing through the angel. “Peaceful,” he answered at last.  
  
“Well,” Dean said. “Good. Probably not as good with a sack of dead weight makin’ your arm fall asleep, but—”  
  
“Dean,” Cas interrupted, his voice earnest. “If this was my last night on Earth, it was well-spent. And you sorely needed the rest.”  
  
Dean half-smiled at the angel and tried to play off the sincerity in his face. “Guess I didn’t snore, then.”  
  
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Cas said, tilting his head.  
  
Dean rolled his eyes and didn’t bother to explain, glancing instead at the wing still curved around him. “Your wings are comfortable,” he commented, a little awkwardly. “Better than that damn couch.”  
  
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Cas murmured, and Dean saw his lips tick up, his eyes warm with his smile. If Dean didn’t know better—and he did, he told himself, he did—he would have believed the angel was flirting with him, but how many times had he thought that in passing before? How many times had he yelped _personal space!_ to get Cas not to stand so damn close, how many conversations had they had about an appropriate amount of eye contact, and how many times had he wondered if Cas already _knew_ those things and was doing it on purpose?  
  
“I need breakfast,” he said, hopping down from the hood of the Impala. “When’s go-time?”  
  
“Soon,” Cas answered. The smile had vanished; Dean saw something flat and alien in Cas’s eyes that made him swallow, discomfited. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to provide power,” he added. “I don’t know if you’ll even be aware of what happens.”  
  
Dean reached out, unable to stop himself, and gripped into Cas’s forearm, right over the scar. There was something, something in the way Cas had talked, just then, that reminded him of a more militant angel, empty, obedient, something foreign and overwhelmingly unfamiliar in his thousand-yard stare that jerked Dean’s stomach around, woke up the panic always slumbering inside him. With that touch, though, with Dean yanking Cas down from the hood of the Impala, he flooded back into himself, the angel Dean knew, and looked at him with surprise.  
  
“Just come back,” Dean said: an order, firm and unyielding, and Cas was the face of a rebellion these days but he still nodded because, like it or not, he missed being told what to do, and Dean knew that. Dean was his north star now, his guiding light, he owed him that much, because Cas had given everything for him and then some, and someday there wouldn’t be any more to give.  
  
Bobby and Sam were awake when Dean and Cas banged through the back door. “Late night or early mornin’?” Bobby said, looking up from the books strewn across his desk.  
  
“Both,” Dean muttered, then, louder, “Cas says the angels are ready. They’re breaking open the armory today.”  
  
Sam’s head came up at that. “Already?”  
  
Dean turned from the coffee pot, scowling. “You think they should wait a few days?” he growled.  
  
Sam raised his palms in surrender. “No, no, they should get this moving, but...are you really ready to break into Heaven? Shouldn’t that be something that requires a lot of planning?”  
  
“No,” Cas said, flipping through one of the open books on Bobby’s desk. “It’s not as difficult as you’re imagining. We’re not in exile; Raphael no longer has the authority to enforce that. The difficulty will lie in making it to the armory unnoticed, and removing the weapons without raising the alarm.”  
  
“What about Virgil?” Dean asked.  
  
“I suspect that we’ll be unable to avoid a confrontation with him,” Cas answered, glancing up. “I only hope that his forces are outnumbered, if we take them by surprise.”  
  
“You’ll be able to use me, though,” Dean said. Sam smirked briefly. “Mind out of the gutter,” Dean grumbled. “My soul. You’ll be able to use my soul if there’s a firefight.”  
  
“I’m not sure,” Cas hedged again. “The barriers between Heaven and Earth might jam the connection.” He tilted his head. “It’s time.”  
  
“Be _careful_ ,” Dean barked.  
  
Cas narrowed his eyes. “This is the opposite of _careful_ ,” he pointed out, and with a rustle of wings, disappeared.  
  
“He still misses stuff sometimes,” Sam said thoughtfully, clearly unconcerned.  
  
Dean ground his teeth. “You’re not exactly the poster boy for humanity right now,” he shot back.  
  
Sam blinked innocently at him. “At least I have a grasp of how to behave, even if I don’t understand it,” he said mildly. “Half the time Cas can’t do either.”  
  
Dean had to agree with that, but he didn’t have to admit it out loud. He stopped pacing and tried to sort through the connection at the back of his mind, tried to bring it to the surface so that he knew what Cas knew.  
  
“Still got a handle on him?” Bobby asked. His voice was forcibly casual. The old hunter, at least, worried about how dangerous this was, but Dean still felt alone in his anxiety about the well-being of the angel. Their Apocalypse problems always were a bitch, but it was the people he could lose along the way that always hit him the hardest, and he’d already lost so many. Their names were a litany in his mind, a whispered repetition that never left him, like a demon deal carved into his skin.  
  
He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate, and something clicked, allowed him to feel, to understand: Cas, his army of angels with him, was flying, flipping through the dimensions that separated Earth from Heaven. Balthazar was with him, leading the way. He didn’t see it; he just knew, as though the pulse of Cas’s awareness was echoing through to him.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean managed, because it was overwhelming when he focused on it; he felt like his own consciousness was in danger of being washed out by the brilliance of Cas’s. “They’re flying.”  
  
Sam and Bobby watched him as he resumed pacing, Sam with curiosity, Bobby with ill-suppressed apprehension.  
  
 _Cas_ , Dean tried, because the silence of grim determination was becoming unbearable. _Still with me?_  
  
Cas and his army touched down in Heaven. Dean felt the saturated, muted brilliance of the place, the roiling, shifting landscape, and his stomach lurched in reaction. He hadn’t had that visceral reaction to Heaven when he’d been dead; its sudden jumps had felt natural, normal, then, but now they felt alien, sickening. Through the haze of discomfort, Balthazar gestured, moving among the angels to illustrate the route to the armory and their plan of attack.  
  
 _Yes_ , Cas answered, his voice sure. _The connection must be stronger now._ He paused, and Dean felt his concern. _Are you alright?_  
  
 _I’m ready_ , Dean told him, hands balled into fists at his side. Cas’s reality layered over his own, but he still saw Bobby rise to lean casually against his desk, watching Dean carefully. _I’m standing by._  
  
Balthazar fell back to confer with Cas. “Still wired?” he said, his voice oddly strained.  
  
“Yes,” Cas answered.  
  
“We might have a problem, then,” Balthazar muttered, pointing. Dean realized where they were.  
  
The night sky sprawled across Heaven over a salvage yard—Bobby’s salvage yard. In the distance, two figures sat huddled on the outline of an old car. One of them had wings: powerful, dark shadows that largely eclipsed the other. The moonlight—too brilliant, oversaturated like everything in Heaven—gilded those black feathers, lit up the streaks of shifting color in them with a staggering radiance.  
  
Dean’s mouth went dry. It was Cas. It was him and Cas, last night, last night on Earth.  
  
 _Am I doing this?_ Dean demanded, turning his back on Sam and Bobby.  
  
“His soul is interfering,” Balthazar said. “It’s distorting the fabric of Heaven. We will never find the armory at this rate—he’ll keep us on a playback loop of—”  
  
“Yes,” Cas said, and it sounded like a sigh. “It seems that way.”  
  
“Can you cut off the connection?”  
  
“No!” Dean roared aloud; behind him, he heard Bobby’s elbow send a stack of books flying. “Fuck no! You need me, Cas!”  
  
 _We don’t have a choice,_ Cas answered tiredly, turning his back on Balthazar. His gaze went to the two figures; Dean had just relaxed, boneless, into Cas, the angel’s arm and wing lifting to wrap snugly around his shoulders. _This entire enterprise is fruitless if we can’t even reach the armory._  
  
“Don’t do this,” he said, and his voice shook even while he fought to control it. “Virgil would have killed you—”  
  
 _This will be a temporary measure, if I survive. I can’t shut you out for long._ He seemed resigned now, watching them in the distance.  
  
“Cas—Cas, don’t—”  
  
 _I am sorry, Dean,_ he replied, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, stretching out soothing fingers over Dean’s mind, as though to calm his sudden, horrible panic, the kind that made his stomach drop out and his palms sweat. _If it is...of any importance...I have lived for a long time, but this is also one of my greatest memories._  
  
Dean’s world went black. When he was slapped awake by Sam a few moments later, he felt cold and bereft, as though something had been ripped from him, body and soul.  
  
  
  
“How long d’you reckon this battle could go on for?” Bobby said, interrupting the silence that had enveloped them all for the better part of an hour.  
  
Dean didn’t answer. He stared, blankly, at his boots. He could still feel his pulse, fast and shallow, like an addict who’d been cut from his supply; he was cold, but sweating, the discomfort of it nauseating, and he’d barely moved, kept his face in the cool dark of his palms since waking up just to keep the bile down. The connection between him and Cas had only split wide open a few days ago, but it had already changed everything. Being cut off from it created a panic so severe that he was unsure if his symptoms were physically or psychologically based. It took all his energy just to breathe, slowly, irregularly, his chest too tight to afford him any relief.  
  
“It’s got to end soon, one way or another,” Sam said to Bobby, his voice low enough that Dean had to strain to hear.  
  
 _Don’t die_ , he thought, hard, and the yawning black of his mind was all that answered. _Don’t die, you son of a bitch. Don’t you dare fucking die on me. Not now. Not after..._  
  
Cas in his head still sounded like Cas in the flesh: that voice, low and grating, as though human vocal cords couldn’t contain it quite right. It had still sounded like that—thoroughly rough, utterly Cas—when he’d been overcome with hesitance, when he’d sent his last transmission. _At least he knows_ , Dean thought, and then, suddenly angry, _knows what?_ Cas was not exactly totally hooked into his own emotions, and his powers of inference were horrifyingly low, even when someone else was _clearly_ implying things. Dean didn’t even know what he was implying.  
  
Except that Cas meant something deep to him. Maybe he’d gotten at least that much. Maybe he’d gotten that among all of Dean Winchester’s Greatest Hits, he was in there, too, and that meant a hell of a lot, because there weren’t a lot of Greatest Hits to begin with.  
  
Dean tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter, anyway, because if Cas was dead and the world was about to get run over by a few archangels throwing temper tantrums, this was the least of his worries.  
  
The sun set. Bobby fell asleep at his desk, Sam started up his research again, and Dean finally unfolded himself—cramped, stiff, aching—to at least go to the kitchen for some water, hoping that his legs could support him. He wondered, in a way that filled him with dread, if they would ever know what had happened. If anyone had survived.  
  
At that moment, there was a scuffle out in the yard. “Your bloody angel-proofing is a problem!” a voice shouted, and Dean didn’t look back at Sam or Bobby; he nearly ripped the door off of its hinges in his haste to get outside.  
  
Balthazar was holding up Cas, supporting the angel’s dead weight on his shoulders. Cas looked much smaller without his wings, which Dean could no longer see. He was bruised and bleeding, and that was only the skin that Dean could see; the half-shredded trench coat and the blood soaking through his shirt spoke of deeper problems, more wounds, but in spite of this, relief tore through Dean. Cas looked like he’d been beaten within an inch of his life, but he was still alive.  
  
“No, he doesn’t look great, but he told me you ought to be able to do something about that right before he passed out,” Balthazar commented. He was worse for the wear, too, his hair on end, his clothes ruffled and ripped, blood dripping in dark patches from various wounds. “Though he did think that the...whatever it is you two have going on...would have to reopen before you could help.”  
  
Dean was already moving forward, ducking his shoulders under Cas’s dangling arm, taking the angel’s weight off of Balthazar. “What happened?” he demanded, his fingers pressed hard into the pulse still beating in the limp wrist draped over his shoulder.  
  
Balthazar raised his eyebrows, as if he thought an explanation was unnecessary. “Bit of a battle, man. Things got hairy around the armory.”  
  
“I thought the plan was to go _unnoticed_ ,” Dean snapped.  
  
Balthazar’s eyes flashed. “We never thought it would be that easy,” he said mildly. “Security was better than it’s been; Virgil was very offended that I made off with his toys without so much as a by-your-leave.”  
  
“And?” Sam was leaning against the back door, frowning. “Did you get anything?”  
  
Balthazar smirked. “Got it all. Every last bit. Raphael isn’t happy, I’ll tell you that, but he’s running scared now.”  
  
Something soft brushed Dean’s arm. Startled, he looked down. Cas’s wings had reappeared, slumped against his back; they were ripped apart in places, blood dripping blackly through his feathers. Balthazar followed his gaze, and Dean thought he saw worry flare briefly in the angel’s features.  
  
“He took a beating,” Balthazar said. “Tell him to take it easy. I’ll check in.” He vanished in a rustle of feathers.  
  
“Couldn’t have given us more details, huh?” Dean muttered, and with a grunt, leaned down and folded Cas over his shoulder. He gently pushed off a faceful of feathers and climbed the stairs to the back door. Sam stepped aside to let him pass, and Bobby stared at the wrecked angel.  
  
“How bad is it?” the old hunter asked, and Dean shook his head.  
  
“He’s alive,” he answered. “Connection’s open again, I’m gonna see if I can fix him.”  
  
Bobby nodded but Dean barely saw; he’d already turned toward the stairs leading to the basement. Carefully ducking beneath the doorframe, he carried the angel down, trying not to move him too much. A broken feather brushed his shoulder, Cas let out a groan, and his relief hit him like a flood, swallowing him until he shook with the force of it. “It’s okay,” he said automatically, his hold on Cas tightening. “You’re alive, and you’re damn well staying that way, you son of a bitch.”  
  
  
  
Castiel was moving, a limp arm swaying with the motion, an arm wrapped tight around his knees, fingers clenched around his wrist. An instant later, the pain hit him, lancing through his wings. With a low groan, he tried to push away from the body carrying him—the contact was agonizing—but the grip on his legs and wrist just clutched tighter.  
  
“It’s okay,” a rough voice soothed, close to his ear. “I’ve got you, Cas.”  
  
 _Dean_.  
  
He felt the distant touch of the hunter’s consciousness again; the connection was reopening, his weakened state preventing him from holding it closed. It had taken enormous amounts of energy to break the bond in the first place. He didn’t think he would have the strength to seal it off again.  
  
Dean’s relief was shaky, a wild chaos reaching out to envelope him, as he maneuvered Castiel gently down to a soft surface. His touch was light and reassuring as it stroked down Castiel’s shoulder to slide into his wing. He felt Dean settle on the edge of the mattress, close to him. Castiel shuddered at another burst of pain.  
  
“Okay,” Dean murmured, his fingers soft on the feathers. “Let’s get you fixed up.”  
  
His grip tightened, suddenly and unexpectedly, and Castiel let out another moan of agony as his eyes snapped open to stare up into Dean’s. The green was splintered, fractured, terrified, the hunter’s face a mess of tension—vulnerable, open, the way he so rarely was, and Castiel just wanted to reassure him, wanted to see that pain bleed out. _I’m all right_ , Castiel meant to say. _I survived, I came back, I came back to you_ , but all that he got out, his voice breaking and teeth clenched, was Dean’s name, gasped through the pain taking him apart.  
  
“It’s okay, Cas, I’ve got you,” Dean said, gruff and familiar, his eyes fixed on the angel’s. “Look at me, okay? Focus. I’m gonna make the pain stop.” His voice was sure, a steady stream of orders he knew Castiel was helpless to obey. He tried, vision swimming, focused the strength he had left on green, green, green, and his wounds began to heal. Dean’s soul poured through him slowly, liquid fire burning out the pain. Gentle fingers smoothed down his feathers as the flesh beneath them knitted, gently righting those that were bent or out of place, healing the broken ones with a stray touch.  
  
And then it was dark, and quiet, and he felt burned out. His Grace had been enormously taxed, his injuries enough to demand that he rest for a time. He slumped into the just-lumpy mattress; it was comfortable enough, and his newly-restored wings would cushion him.  
  
Dean’s shoulders were slumped, relief still a tinny, violent thing coursing through him with insistence, his hand gentler now in its grip on Castiel’s wing. _I came back,_ Castiel thought, exhausted. _I came back for you_ , but all that left his lips was, “Thank you.”  
  
His chin lifted, his body straightening, and the vulnerability was gone, replaced with a dark rage that was barely repressed in his voice. “Just glad you’re okay,” he said roughly, letting go of Castiel and getting to his feet. “And I’m really fucking pissed at you, but that can wait until you rest. You were pretty messed up.”  
  
Dean was at the heavy door of the panic room by the time Castiel staggered upright, swaying where he stood. The hunter paused, listening, back to Castiel as the angel swayed forward, hand clenched tight on the table beside the bed for support.  
  
“Don’t leave,” Castiel said quietly, and he hated that he sounded as if he was begging.  
  
“You’re fine,” Dean said, his voice automatic. “Just rest. I’ve gotta talk to Bobby, you need to—”  
  
“Dean,” he insisted, and suddenly Dean was in front of him, hands biting into his shoulders, features twisted with anger.  
  
“You scared the hell out of me, you son of a bitch,” he snarled.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, and he meant it. “There was no way for us to get further into Heaven without severing the connection. It was...uncomfortable...for me, too.”  
  
“Uncomfortable?!” Dean’s fingers dug in harder; the hunter shook him, a small, angry movement. “It felt like I was dying!” Dean’s voice dropped, went raw. “I thought you were _dead_.”  
  
“I know, Dean, I—”  
  
“No, Cas, I don’t think you do.” His arms fell back to his sides, releasing his hold on the angel; he took a step back, and Castiel watched his fingers twitch, his hands tremor. “You’re all I’ve got left,” he said, his words hard. “Only damn friend I’ve ever made for myself, last on a long list of names of dead family and good-as. I don’t wanna be around to watch what happens to me if you don’t come back, I was already on my way in Indiana, fucking checked out and just waiting for a hunt stupid enough and close enough to go get myself killed—”  
  
“Stop behaving like a child,” Castiel snapped, losing patience. “This is the Apocalypse, Dean, there are _casualties_ —”  
  
“There have been enough,” Dean shot back, his hands clenched into fists now.  
  
“Of course there have been enough. Of course there have been too many. But we _needed_ those weapons, and there was no other way to navigate Heaven. You make your own dangerous, reckless decisions, Dean, you always have, and to expect anyone else to do otherwise is selfish, hypocritical—”  
  
“I do what I have to,” Dean growled.  
  
“And now, so do I,” Castiel replied. “If you wanted me to abide by your every command, you should never have demanded that I disobey Heaven.”  
  
The change in Dean’s demeanor was instantaneous: his features, rigid with fury, suddenly fell; his fists loosened, fingers uncurling at his sides; he was hurt, open, vulnerable once again.  
  
“Dean,” he said, more gently now. “I’m in no haste to die.”  
  
“That’s rich,” Dean said, his voice weak. “Coming from someone who’s already done it twice.”  
  
“I believe I’m still a much lower flight risk,” Castiel retaliated. “I stood between you and the archangels, Dean, I inspired Lucifer’s wrath, but I did it for a cause, not just a person. You sold your soul for Sam’s life, condemned yourself to an eternity of Hell for nothing but to make your brother live.”  
  
Dean didn’t protest, didn’t argue; he was silent, staring at Castiel, something unfamiliar in his eyes, and Castiel couldn’t parse it, didn’t understand it, even though he felt it through their bond. It was new and bleak, and Dean looked at him like they were going to lose.  
  
“Dean,” he tried, but the hunter just turned on his heel and walked away, shutting the panic room door behind him. Castiel, too weak to follow, let himself fall to the mattress, let his eyes slide closed, and tried to understand the chill that radiated, pervasive, frostbitten, into his Grace.  
  
  
  
When Castiel woke again, Dean was gone. The connection was there, but vague, distant, and still cold; it made him uneasy, uncomfortable in a way that he couldn’t describe. He drifted to the den upstairs, where Bobby jumped at his sudden appearance.  
  
“Where is Dean?” he said without preamble.  
  
Bobby looked at him guardedly. Castiel had an infinitely more difficult time understanding the old hunter than he did Dean. “At the bar,” Bobby answered finally, “with Sam. Feelin’ better? You’ve been out for a day.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Castiel said shortly. “I should find—”  
  
“Don’t,” Bobby interrupted, kicking out a chair from the other side of his desk. “Sit.”  
  
Castiel considered flying, anyway, but Bobby had a steely, demanding look on his face, so after a moment of hesitation, he dropped into the chair. Bobby pulled up a bottle of whiskey from beneath his desk and pushed a glass across the papers to Castiel. He waited, silent, while Bobby poured out the amber liquid.  
  
“Cheers,” Bobby said, lifting his glass. Castiel followed suit. “Guess we’ve got better’n a snowball’s chance now. Any casualties?”  
  
“A few,” Castiel replied, feeling a pang of regret as he remembered the scream of falling angels. “On both sides. It was worth the death toll.”  
  
“Raphael didn’t show, I take it.”  
  
“No. Some of the angels believe he is afraid of me, now.”  
  
Bobby’s lips tipped up in a brief smile, his beard twitching.  
  
“I don’t see how that’s amusing,” Castiel said, irked.  
  
Bobby didn’t answer, just sipped his whiskey instead, so Castiel looked down to consider his own drink.  
  
“Give Dean some time to stew,” Bobby said at last. “Let him get drunk, let him complain.”  
  
“What will that accomplish?” Castiel asked, still annoyed.  
  
“Get it out of his system, that’s what.” Bobby considered him over the rim of his glass. “He told me what you’re planning, ya know. Was all beat up about it before Sam dragged him off to the bar.” Castiel stared, uncomprehending. Bobby sighed. “The human thing.”  
  
“Oh.” Castiel frowned. “We haven’t discussed that in days.”  
  
“So it’s true,” Bobby said, his expression blank. “Didn’t know you could choose that. Anna didn’t even remember who she was, had to grow up human.”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel acknowledged. “But there are other ways. I have been human before, and my powers are...different...than other angels’.”  
  
“Dean ain’t too keen on the idea.”  
  
“He didn’t seem opposed to it,” Castiel replied, confused.  
  
“Probably didn’t wanna ruffle your feathers again, but it’s botherin’ him.” Bobby was frowning now.  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“Ain’t your fault. He never told ya what he saw, when Zachariah took him to 2014.”  
  
Castiel fidgeted with his drink, unnerved. “Lucifer, in Sam, I thought.”  
  
“Yeah,” Bobby acknowledged. “Not pretty, but there was somethin’ else. Somethin’ almost as bad. You. Human.”  
  
Castiel leaned forward, intrigued. “How?”  
  
“Case ya don’t remember, you were on the fast track to falling not too long ago,” Bobby pointed out. “Guess all the angels abandoned Earth when the Croatoan virus got crazy, took the last of your mojo with you. You were full-on human.”  
  
“I don’t understand,” Castiel said again, more slowly this time. “What does that—”  
  
“To hear Dean tell it, you weren’t Castiel anymore,” Bobby said. “Just Cas, some hippie hopped up on every drug he could find, screwin’ every girl who was willing.”  
  
Castiel understood it now, the boneless relief in Dean’s eyes when he’d stolen the hunter away from Zachariah, the sudden burst of adoration all over his face on the side of that road.  
  
“Thinks he breaks everything he touches,” Bobby muttered. “Thinks his soul broke you, thinks his influence led you into that meat grinder, at the end.”  
  
“Circumstances are different,” Castiel said blankly.  
  
“Dean’s a black-and-white kinda guy,” Bobby replied.  
  
The back door opened and, a moment later, Sam stomped into the den. Bobby raised his eyebrows.  
  
“Where’s Dean?”  
  
“The bar,” Sam growled. “Couldn’t get him to leave, thought Cas could just...go get him.” He glanced at the angel. “He’s not in a good mood,” he warned.  
  
“I didn’t expect him to be,” Castiel said sadly. He opened his wings and flew, following the bright spark of Dean’s soul into town.  
  
The bar was small, dirty, and nearly empty; Castiel realized that it was very late as he ducked in and spotted Dean in the far corner, rolling a glass between his hands. He’d half-expected to see Dean attempting to seduce the bartender, but she was wiping down the long counter, not so much as glancing his way. He crossed to the other side of the room and slid into the booth across from Dean, quiet.  
  
“Knew you were gonna turn up.” His words were only a little slurred. “Could feel you flyin’. Weird feelin’.”  
  
Castiel kept his tone neutral. “Sam said you wouldn’t go with him. He asked me to collect you.”  
  
Dean looked up. His green eyes were glassy. “You were right,” he said, and each word was bitten off, carefully enunciated. “I was out of line.” He paused and sagged back against booth, lifting his drink to his lips for a quick gulp. His voice relaxed again. “You did good, Cas. Seein’ you like that, though.” He stared up at the ceiling. “It was rough.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Castiel said cautiously, but Dean shook his head.  
  
“Nah, man. It’s war, right? That’s what it is. That’s _how_ it is.” He looked down at his glass, then said suddenly, “I didn’t want to tell you. Even if you ended up that way. Wanted you to make your own choice. But you reminded me—in that moment, you reminded me of what I’d done, the path I’d put you on, and you’re closer to it now than you’ve ever been. Sure, you fell at the end there, but it seemed like a given that you were either gonna get your powers back or die, that you wouldn’t stay human, and now...”  
  
“Dean,” Castiel said softly, and Dean looked up again, eyes a little sharper now.  
  
“No, listen. I know Bobby told you, I can—I just know—but you didn’t see it. You weren’t there.” Dean snorted, a humorless laugh. “Guess that’s about right. _You weren’t there._ You really weren’t. Checked out, totally gone, don’t fucking know what happened to you, what I did—”  
  
“Dean,” he tried again, but Dean went on, not listening.  
  
“—but you were different, you weren’t _you_ , you weren’t Castiel, gripped-me-tight-and-raised-me-from-Perdition, Angel of the Lord, kicking my ass, running from strippers, righteous and deadpan and socially inept, you were _Cas_ , strung out on something different every hour, taking stupid shit and every order I barked out, having fucking _orgies_ , broken and hopeless and half-suicidal. Didn’t call me out on a damn thing, just sat back and let me be a crazy fucking bastard, and I don’t want that.” Dean stared him down, and something twisted in Castiel’s stomach. “If you get to be human, don’t stop fighting like that, okay? I can’t tell you not to drink yourself half to death even if I want to, because you’re allowed, it’s a hunter thing, and you wanna be a hunter, so you’ll probably do it, sometime. And I can’t tell you not to bang a ton of chicks because, honestly, man, that was kind of impressive.” Castiel felt himself turn red, ducked his head in embarrassment, and Dean grinned and threw back the rest of his drink. “Just don’t...don’t lose sight of yourself, in the middle of all that, because you’re...” He searched for the words, rolling the glass between his hands. “You’re special, Cas,” he said finally. “Weird, crazy little nerd-angel, yeah, but special. Believe that. Believe _me_.”  
  
Castiel nodded, unsure what to say; it was impossible to articulate the curl of pleasure in his chest, the glow, the pride he took in Dean’s strange outburst, and if he had been able, he was sure the hunter would wave it off, interrupt him, joke in the face of his gratitude. It was better to stay quietly appreciative, to let his lips tick up in an unbidden smile.  
  
“Good,” Dean said, and slid out of the booth. “Let’s get out of here.” He paused, dug around a little clumsily in his pocket, and pulled out his keys. “One thing. Baby’s in that lot and there’s no way I should drive.” He hesitated a moment longer, then stretched out his hand, silver flashing from a fingertip. “Guess you’re gonna learn somethin’ new tonight.”  
  
Castiel held his hand out, palm-up, and Dean folded the keys into his hand. “You crash her, I’ll kill you,” Dean added, warning, then threw his arm around Castiel’s shoulders and pulled him from the bar, chuckling.  
  
The cold lingered, but it was quiet as Dean guided his hand over the gearshift, drowned by the laughter when he accidentally turned on the windshield wipers. It was dread, he thought, some mutated and terrible apprehension about their future, about a Castiel who was human, about a Castiel who had changed beyond recognition. It chilled Dean to let him anywhere near that future, terrified him to let Castiel come close enough to touch it, but the hunter would let him have his choice regardless.  
  
The implications were severe, but he was grateful nonetheless.


	7. Bleeding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We don’t always talk about the things we think about. In fact, make a note—we almost never do.”

“No, Cas. _Cas_. _Pull it the other fucking way_.”  
  
Cas shot him a look—a look of terror that was highly reminiscent of that night at that whorehouse, and why not, his car was like sex, the parallels were all there—but when Dean just laughed and leaned over to pull the gearshift into the right slot, Cas relaxed. A little, anyway.  
  
“Foot on the brake,” Dean warned, his hand still firm over Cas’s. “Remember, that’s the one on the—”  
  
“ _Left_ , Dean, I remember.” He sounded vaguely annoyed now.  
  
“Okay, okay.” Dean glanced over his shoulder. “No one to back into, so, go for it.”  
  
Cas hesitated, then slowly inched his foot off the brake, the way Dean had demonstrated a few minutes earlier. The Impala crawled backward. Not for the first time, Dean thought this could be a Bad Fucking Idea—he wasn’t that drunk, anyway, he could probably get them back to Bobby’s—  
  
Cas hit the brake, too hard, and they both lurched forward and thumped back in their seats. Dean was caught between a laugh and a flinch. The wide-eyed look of terror had returned to Cas’s face.  
  
“It’s okay,” Dean reassured him, grinning. “You’ll pick it up. Let’s just...drive around the lot for a few minutes, practice turning, okay?”  
  
Cas nodded, so Dean gripped tighter into his hand and shifted the Impala into drive before letting go and leaning back. “Okay,” he said. “Light on the gas. Go to the end of the row and turn left. Slowly.”  
  
Cas tapped lightly on the gas and the car slid forward. His grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled, his shoulders hunched forward, his gaze one of extreme focus; Dean had to work hard not to laugh. Cas was legitimately terrified of wrecking his car, even though he could probably put it right again in an instant, and it was sort of endearing, the way Cas understood how much the Impala meant to him.  
  
“Left,” he said, and when Cas turned the wheel the barest fraction of an inch, “harder than that, left, _left_!”  
  
Cas stomped on the gas at the same time as he twisted the wheel and they shot forward, swinging wildly around the end of the parking lot.  
  
“Brake!” Dean shouted, and they jerked to a halt again.  
  
Cas looked sideways at him, still clutching the wheel, and Dean burst into laughter. The angel frowned.  
  
“We could just—”  
  
“No,” Dean choked out, still chuckling. “Can you carry her all the way back to Bobby’s? Don’t answer that, I don’t care if you can, I won’t let you, you’d drop her. And I’m _not_ leaving her in this parking lot all night. No fucking way. You can do it.” He pointed to the other end of the lot, ignoring Cas’s look of indignation. “One more time. Slowly.”  
  
He did better this time, turning around the end of the parking lot without panicking and jolting them forward, and Dean nodded in satisfaction. “Okay,” he said, settling more comfortably into the seat. “Go for the road. Remember the way?”  
  
Cas spared him another sideways look, one that looked dangerously close to an eye-roll, and eased the car out of the parking lot, right on the road.  
  
“See? Not so hard. Just remember what we talked about. Stoplights. Turn signals.”  
  
Cas’s eyes stayed fixed on the street as he gave a tiny nod. It was clear that he didn’t share Dean’s opinion of driving. There was a red light in the distance, and Cas started slowing for it far too soon.  
  
“You’ll grow into it,” Dean said bracingly. “I swear, eventually it just becomes second nature.”  
  
Now that his wings were visible, it was weird to see Cas in the Impala; they were scrunched up behind his back, and Dean could feel them, cramped and uncomfortable, the equivalent of a human’s shoulders hunched in tension.  
  
“Hey,” he said. “Relax. That’s gotta be annoying. Spread out a little.” He leaned forward and patted the back of the seat behind him.  
  
Cas spared him the briefest of glances before his eyes flicked back to the road and his wings relaxed, stretching out to drape over the front seat. The right wing unfolded toward Dean, concealing the upholstery from view, and he leaned back into the feathers. The instant his weight touched the wing, he felt Cas relax a little more.  
  
It had been a long, uncomfortable night. Robo-Sam was good enough company at a bar, but there were things Dean missed about his brother that he’d never admit to the guy’s face: Sam’s determination to make him talk about everything that bothered him, for one. Lately, he even missed the range of Bitchface his little brother used to cook up when he was annoyed with Dean. The version without a soul just fed him alcohol and had sex with random chicks in the bathroom. He could’ve done with a stupid heart-to-heart, chick-flick, gut-wrenching feelings talk, the kind that only Sam had a good chance of dragging out of him. He could’ve done with advice, if he was being honest—with himself, and not out loud. Something to confirm or deny his dread about Castiel becoming human. But the thing that had taken him to the bar didn’t really have the emotional range for that, just attempted to make sympathetic faces and pushed another drink at him while he was trying to think.  
  
The haze of alcohol was sinking into him again, now that he wasn’t actively trying to teach an angel-child how to drive, and that helped. It made Sam easier to push away, to shove down, to forget. He turned his head to the side and looked at Cas instead, and it was a relief, to focus in on the little things about the angel rather than everything else. This was _his_ Cas: all full-blown terror at something new and totally human, that was Cas, and it felt good to be reminded of it after everything he’d been quietly fearing at the back of his mind, after being haunted by the image of a Cas he didn’t know—a Cas he’d used, a Cas he’d left to rot.  
  
That was the worst—aside from seeing Lucifer, white suit and a smirk, driving his brother: seeing Cas with blown pupils and glazed eyes, the vague tremors in his hands before he popped those pills in the car, the utter _brokenness_ of the former angel, and he knew he’d done it, that the very touch of him had corrupted and then left Cas, neglected, to grow on his own out of that corruption and thrive—no— _languish_. He knew it because of the way _that_ Cas had looked at him, like he was salvation, or maybe just a ghost, long dead and gone, and that Cas had missed him with a ferocity that had burned the intoxication out of his eyes, just for a split second.  
  
The angel shifted and Dean snapped out of his memories.  
  
“Dean,” Cas said, his voice low and strained.  
  
“No,” he said sharply, turning to face forward again. “Conversation over. We’re not talking about it anymore.”  
  
“But you’re _thinking_ about it,” Cas pointed out, irritated.  
  
“We don’t always talk about the things we think about. In fact, make a note—we almost never do.” Dean leaned over and flicked the headlights to the bright setting, throwing stark relief on the cornstalks swaying past. “So. Anything good in that weapons stash you stole?”  
  
Cas clearly wasn’t happy to drop the subject, but he followed Dean’s lead. “Balthazar and I will examine the supply tomorrow,” he said. “I’m not sure what we’ll find.”  
  
“Something useful, I hope,” Dean muttered. “You don’t even know what you took? Don’t the angels just—you know, _know_ what’s in their armory?”  
  
“No,” Cas answered. “These weapons haven’t been used since Lucifer’s fall, and even then, very few angels were given the privilege of using them. I was young, and undeserving of that right.”  
  
Almost against his will, Dean turned back to Cas. He was tired and half-drunk, so it seemed okay to finally stare when the angel wasn’t staring back, and it was rare that he got to _look_ at Cas, really look and absorb: the perpetual stubble lining his jaw, the twisted collar of his trench coat, the dark hair sticking out in small, random tufts—he knew it wasn’t Cas, not really, not his _essence_ , but this was how Dean had always seen him, always known him, and if the angel got his wish then someday it really _would_ be him. His own flesh and blood, not just a vessel to drive, not a meat suit that had to work to contain him.  
  
“Young,” Dean repeated finally.  
  
“Yes. We’re born, too. Not like humans—not as personal or messy—but created. Shaped and given life by God. We grow, we age. To a point.”  
  
“So you were...what.” Dean grinned at the thought, a vague image of a younger Cas with the same blue eyes and a miniature version of the trench coat and tie, even if that wasn’t right, even if Cas had just been a ball of light back then. “You were a kid?”  
  
“A teenager would be a better comparison,” Cas corrected. “I was...a kid...when the first fish emerged from the oceans.”  
  
Dean tried, half-heartedly, for a whole five seconds to remember anything from school that might have told him when that was.  
  
“Nearly four hundred million years ago, Dean,” Cas said, his voice unmistakably dry.  
  
Dean whistled. “That’s old.”  
  
Cas remained quiet, staring ahead, hands occasionally twitching on the steering wheel to correct the car’s path.  
  
“So,” Dean prompted. “You were very young with the fish, then.”  
  
“Barely sentient,” Cas confirmed. “What do you remember of your childhood?”  
  
“Not a lot. More as I got older.”  
  
“Sporadic memories, vague feelings?”  
  
“Yeah, something like that.”  
  
“I remember very little of the beginning,” Cas said. He sounded almost mournful. “That fish is one of my earliest memories. Most other angels can recall the creation of Earth, when it was still shrouded in darkness. I can’t remember that Earth.”  
  
“Why?” Dean asked, frowning.  
  
“I was one of the last angels ever created,” Cas said, with the tone of a confession. “Given recent events, it has been speculated that I was _the_ last.”  
  
“What d’you mean, _recent events_?”  
  
“My rebellion,” Cas said. “It’s been suggested that God made me...wrong.”  
  
“By _who_?” Dean demanded, sitting up now. Cas’s wing curled around his shoulder, as though to placate him.  
  
“There are only rumors, though I suspect Raphael,” he muttered.  
  
“You’re not _wrong_ ,” Dean said, too loud in the confined space. “If you got made different, Cas, if—whatever—if God stopped making angels after you, it’s because you were the best one. Knew he couldn’t top you.”  
  
Cas had opened his mouth to speak, but paused and cleared his throat instead, looking mildly embarrassed. “Thank you, Dean,” he said finally, a shy note in his voice.  
  
“Fuck ‘em,” Dean muttered, drowsy again in the warmth of Cas’s wing; the brief burst of rage had burned out the remainder of his energy. “They don’t know anything.” His eyes slid half-shut before he remembered to ask, “So they haven’t been used since Lucifer fell. Way back.”  
  
“It wasn’t so long ago,” Cas said mildly. “Two million years or so.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean snorted. “Yesterday, practically.”  
  
Cas chuckled. The sound of it was rare, more a burst of exhaled air than a real laugh, but Dean savored it all the same. “I didn’t know him, not well,” Cas said. “But he was bright, vivid—we all adored him, God most of all.” Dean’s eyes slid all the way shut, because that voice was like a balm to every wound that had opened inside him over the last day, and even a story about the Devil couldn’t change that. “We haven’t used the weapons since. It’s been rumored that at times, we passed them down to humans for one purpose or another, or that we acquired new weapons, given power by the people who wielded them on Earth, but angels have done nothing more than inventory the armory.”  
  
“It’s not your fault, Cas,” Dean mumbled; half-asleep, adrift in the expanse of his alcohol-hazed consciousness, he could feel Cas’s guilt like it was his own. “Blame Raphael, if you’ve gotta put it somewhere, but it’s not on you.” He shifted deeper into Cas’s feathers until he could feel their liquid cool against his cheek. “What was the first fish like?”  
  
He felt, rather than saw, the perplexed look that Cas cast his way. “I thought you would be more concerned about my driving capabilities,” he remarked.  
  
“You’re doing fine,” Dean murmured. “Tell me about fish.”  
  
He listened to the gravelly tones of Cas’s voice until they reached Bobby’s. The angel told him about the half-fish, half-crocodile thing that had flopped up on land, gray and fragile; he shared the impressions he remembered, the earliest ones, of Heaven and the other angels, and Dean saw vague light, felt a distant sense of camaraderie, a fuzzy attachment; he recalled earlier humanity, and Dean snickered at the thought of Neanderthals writing poetry.  
  
“Okay, just remember to brake _gently_ ,” he instructed as he felt the crunch of gravel beneath the tires. “And don’t run into the house.”  
  
“I think I’ve mastered that much,” Cas deadpanned, and the Impala slid to a stop.  
  
When he opened his eyes and shifted up, Cas was looking at him—not staring, not like he usually did, aggressive and searching and demanding, but just gazing, a quiet smile at the corner of his mouth, his hands still on the Impala, one tight around the steering wheel and the other hovering over the gearshift. Dean reached over and moved it for him, shifting the car into park with Cas’s hand beneath his, and it felt comfortable and familiar, like they’d been here before. And his throat was suddenly tight, and he knew he should push back, get out, but the Impala was like home, and having Cas in it with him made the world outside fade back, made the war seem a distant and not-so-urgent thing, made everything less hopeless, and he knew the illusion couldn’t last forever.  
  
“I could use some sleep,” he muttered, breaking the eye contact and taking his hand back.  
  
Cas tilted his head; a flare of confusion burst out, touched Dean, before he spoke. “Yes. I should confer with Balthazar. I’ll return tomorrow.”  
  
“Sure,” Dean said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Good.”  
  
Cas’s wings rustled, and when Dean opened his eyes again, the angel was gone. The car was still idling, so he reached over to turn off the engine, found himself halfway down to the warm leather and just sank into the seat. It wouldn’t even be as bad as Bobby’s couch, staying in the Impala for the night. He’d had worse motel beds than the leather of this car, and even with Cas gone, it felt like home, the place with consistency, the place with the memories. He could think in this car, could sleep in this car, and it was like a living, breathing thing that remembered all the places he’d been, all the fights he’d had, all the people he’d loved, and now it remembered Cas, the warm impression of the angel and his wings, the low rumble of his voice.  
  
“Shut up,” he muttered aloud, pillowing his head on his jacket, because the car conversed with him, sometimes, provided feedback like sarcastic commentary, affectionate and critical all at once. “Someone’s gotta tell him he wasn’t a mistake.”  
  
  
  
Balthazar was in New York when Castiel found him. Despite the late hour—or perhaps because of it—the angel was talking with a woman in a mostly-abandoned bar. She swayed into his space, one hand clutched around an empty cocktail glass, and Balthazar just grinned charmingly and talked on, leaning forward to murmur in her ear. He spotted Castiel over her shoulder, and his grin grew instantly.  
  
“Cassie!” he called, delighted. Castiel cringed. The moniker was a recent, whimsical takeoff of _Cas_ , perhaps an attempt to tease Castiel about Dean’s habit of nicknaming him; whatever the reason, it didn’t suffuse him with the same warmth of the original pet name.  
  
“You’re looking better,” Balthazar said approvingly as Castiel approached the pair. “Cas, here,” he added to the woman in an undertone, “was recently in a _battle_. Nasty one, too.”  
  
She gaped up at him, blue eyes glassy but vaguely curious. “Are you a soldier? That’s _really_ brave.” Her voice was a purr, sticky and too sweet.  
  
Balthazar chuckled. “More like a general, sweetheart. Speaking of which, think I’m going to have to run. I’m sure he wants a word.” He winked at Castiel, who looked stonily back.  
  
“Don’t _go_ ,” she whined, her smile faltering. “We were having fun!”  
  
“Sorry, darling. Have another drink, on me.” He signaled for the bartender, left a few bills on the counter, and gave her a last smile before following Castiel out of the bar.  
  
“You have terrible timing.” Balthazar dug a cigarette out of his pocket and put it to his lips; it lit on its own. “She was pretty.”  
  
“I’m sure you’ve enjoyed enough decadence in the last twenty-four hours to subsist without her,” Castiel remarked, watching Balthazar smoke with distaste. “The others?”  
  
“Gone to ground again.” Balthazar squinted up toward the sky and snorted. “Raphael hasn’t made a peep. Bastard. Didn’t even give chase. Bloody rude of him.”  
  
“We should be thankful,” Castiel replied stiffly. “We haven’t examined the weapons yet; it’s doubtful that they’ll be useful to us until we do.”  
  
“Right,” Balthazar said, sighing. “Shall we, then?”  
  
They flew, reappearing in a small pocket of dimensional disturbance in Oregon. The cave was well-hidden by the surrounding landscape, the blurred lines between the planes within even more so; Balthazar had done well hiding the cache. They stepped through the rift and into a parallel cavern, one with no physical entrances or exits. Their hard-won weapons littered the ground and butted up against the walls, and Castiel remembered the casualties—on both sides—with a pang of regret. The angelic population was finite, and though vast, he was loathe to be the cause of its decline.  
  
“Wondered where this’d got to!” Balthazar’s voice was cheerful as he picked up a sling, rolling a few rocks in his other hand.  
  
“You expect to take on Raphael with a slingshot.”  
  
“It’s _David’s_ slingshot,” Balthazar corrected, tossing a stone up. “And this is a real David and Goliath story, anyway, isn’t it? Might do the trick.”  
  
Castiel held out a hand and Balthazar passed it over. Almost immediately, he shook his head. “No,” he said, disappointed. “Not strong enough.” He picked up another rock, but even the additional weight didn’t feel promising.  
  
“Damn. The symbolism would’ve been very elegant.” Balthazar moved forward, nudging through a few piles with his feet.  
  
Castiel did the same, carefully laying David’s slingshot back amongst the artifacts and crouching down to shift through a nearby tangle more closely. His thoughts drifted back to Dean. He’d hated to leave the hunter; even now, he could feel Dean drifting precariously close to the beginning of a nightmare, and he reached out through their bond to soothe away the memory of Hell. Dean had elected to stay in the Impala for the night, curled up across the seats still warm with Castiel’s wings. Even in sleep, a part of the hunter’s soul reached back, twining drowsily through his Grace. His dreams had already shifted; Dean was behind the wheel of the Impala, driving through anonymous countryside, a breeze ruffling his hair through the open windows, Castiel sleeping beside him. The vision was warm, pleasant—so simple, so human.  
  
“Something bothering you, Cassie?” Balthazar asked.  
  
Castiel looked up to find Balthazar staring back at him, brow furrowed in concern. “No,” he answered, gently shaking his Grace away from Dean’s dreams.  
  
“Trouble in Paradise?” Balthazar prompted, picking up a bloodstained cloth; Castiel recognized it as the Shroud of Oviedo, and thought it unlikely to be of any use.  
  
“No,” Castiel replied again, too sharply, and Balthazar raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Oh, come on, share the gossip. What’s Dean’s problem now? He seemed all bloody relieved to have you back in one piece. More or less,” Balthazar muttered.  
  
Balthazar was older than Castiel. Not considerably—not in terms of angelic life spans—but significantly enough; there was no doubt that a generation, or even two, had been created after Balthazar’s. Dean had been so vehement that he was special—that there was nothing wrong with him—but he wondered, nonetheless, if the rumors were true. He had certainly been a part of that final generation. Whether he was the last, though, was uncertain.  
  
“Cough it up,” Balthazar said, more seriously now.  
  
“Is there a way to find out—definitively—who the last angel, ever made, was?” Castiel questioned, picking up a pim weight. There were dozens of them in the cache, each one as powerless as the next.  
  
“Castiel,” Balthazar said, too sympathetically. “Don’t think about that.”  
  
“I’m only curious,” Castiel defended, glancing up.  
  
“Well, you’d have to ask God,” Balthazar said, a smirk touching his lips. “He’s the only one who really, honestly knows—you know that. Even the archangels don’t, not that they’d tell you if they did. I suppose you’ve got a better chance of talking to Him than any of us, though, and it _would_ explain the resurrections if you’re the baby of the family—”  
  
“Shut up,” Castiel muttered, annoyed now, and Balthazar grinned.  
  
“Just trying to help, Cassie.”  
  
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”  
  
“And I wish I hadn’t been saddled with as bloody awful of a name as _Balthazar_. We’ve all got our crosses to bear.”  
  
Balthazar tilted his head as though listening, and his eyes suddenly sharpened out of their merriment. Castiel heard it, too: the unmistakable sound of wings, the quiet knock of distant footsteps.  
  
“I think we’ve got company,” Balthazar murmured.  
  
Castiel’s knife dropped into his palm, and he turned to face the opening to the cavern, where the rift glinted, barely visible. “Raphael?” he muttered as Balthazar fell in beside him.  
  
“Not bloody likely, not unless he’s gotten over blowing out electricity for thousands of miles when he manifests here—”  
  
A snort came from beyond the rift, just as a foot stepped through. He was still chuckling when he straightened up inside the cavern. He was short, his features anonymous, but his essence was strangely familiar, a low thrum of power that rivaled Raphael’s, and he strode forward with a smirk on his lips, the hazel eyes of his vessel glimmering with mirth.  
  
“Gabriel,” Balthazar exhaled, stepping back automatically; it was a knee-jerk reaction to the presence of an archangel, but Castiel was no longer compelled by it.  
  
“The one and only,” Gabriel replied, stopping a few feet short of them.  
  
“You were gone,” Balthazar said, frozen with bewilderment. “You _left_ —”  
  
“More recently, he was dead,” Castiel interrupted, staring down the archangel. “Unless that was another trick.”  
  
“No,” the archangel retaliated. “Dad’s just got a wicked sense of humor. Found the secret to immortality, little bro. Side with the fucking Winchesters. He’ll bring you back every time. You’d think the sun shines out of their asses, the way he throws us at them—”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Balthazar interrupted, indignant now. “Going back to the part where you were dead.”  
  
“He’s been masquerading as a trickster since he disappeared,” Castiel told Balthazar, still frowning at Gabriel. “Before the Winchesters averted the Apocalypse, his true identity was discovered. He was killed by Lucifer while Sam and Dean escaped.”  
  
“Real heroic of me,” Gabriel said, examining his fingernails. “Considering Lucy decided to stab me right in the chest plate rather than listening to reason.”  
  
“How long have you been alive?” Castiel asked flatly.  
  
“Not long,” Gabriel answered vaguely. “There was a charge period required. Wasn’t ready to go right out of the box. I had to wait to approach you.”  
  
“Why would you approach us?”  
  
“You expected me to go back to the pagans?” Gabriel said, and his eyes flashed with brief anger. “No dice, kid. The ones that aren’t dead all know who I am now, and none of them are feeling particularly friendly. What’s worse, I caught wind of this failed Apocalypse that’s having a hard time sticking, and I know I won’t get any peace if Michael and Lucifer make it out of that box.”  
  
“You’re here to help us,” Balthazar said, disbelieving.  
  
“You need help.” Gabriel’s tone was firm, joking gone. “You’ve got an army, Castiel, but you don’t have an archangel, and the other side does. We can _level_ other angels, even legions. Sure, it takes a lot of effort, but you could use one. Nuclear deterrent. I’ll buy you time.”  
  
“Time for what?”  
  
“Time to use this.” The archangel moved past both of them, walking slowly, as though feeling out the store of weapons. He stopped near a pile a few yards away, dug into the tangle of artifacts, and pulled out a simple circlet: a branch of thorns, woven into a crown, still stained with ancient blood. “This is what you’re looking for,” he said matter-of-factly. “This is what you need, and you’ll need Raphael separated from his army in order to have a good shot at using it.”  
  
It was an old hope, a half-dead one, but Castiel asked anyway. “Did you see God?”  
  
Gabriel’s features stayed carefully blank. “No,” he said. “Not exactly. And he’s still not looking to be found, so don’t go looking. That’s not the answer to this confrontation. This is.”  
  
Castiel held out a hand, and Gabriel came forward, passing the circle of thorn branches over. “That’s the Crown of Thorns,” Balthazar said, clearly unnerved.  
  
Castiel felt the power in the thing immediately: long-dormant, well-contained, waiting to be unleashed. Enough energy to burn out an archangel.  
  
“It’s not going to be simple,” Gabriel warned, nudging a few prisms at his feet. “That thing is dangerous. But you’ll be able to use it—and it will work. It was built specifically to kill archangels. Didn’t even know we had a thing like that lying around, but I guess it’s good insurance.”  
  
“How do you know any of this, then?” Castiel demanded, turning the Crown in his hands. It felt almost as if it recognized him; the sensation was not dissimilar to Dean’s soul, though it was significantly less comfortable.  
  
“When I said that I didn’t talk to God, I meant it,” Gabriel said, his eyes rolling toward the ceiling, as though it pained him to admit it. “He just talked _at_ me. It was...”  
  
 _Great_ , Castiel would have expected. _Magnificent._ He had never seen, never known his Father; very few angels ever had. Despite his newfound indifference for God, he would have anticipated something spectacular, to hear His voice at last.  
  
“...annoying,” Gabriel finished.  
  
Castiel supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything better.  
  
  
  
Dean was just getting out of the Impala when Castiel, Gabriel, and Balthazar appeared in Singer Salvage Yard. He smiled at Castiel, but as his eyes swept over to Gabriel, the smile froze on his features.  
  
“Christ, I’ve gotta stop drinking,” he muttered, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Tell me he isn’t here, Cas.”  
  
“Oh, come on, Dean-o,” Gabriel said, his voice falsely sweet. “I did you a real solid at the end, there.”  
  
“Yeah, thanks for that,” Dean said, leaning forward against the hood. “Still can’t say I’m happy to see you. Why is he alive?” he added to Castiel.  
  
“Our Father appears to have resurrected him,” Castiel said wearily. “I need to speak with you. Behave,” he warned Gabriel.  
  
The archangel was staring at Bobby’s house with a sour look. “Could you have made it any _less_ hospitable?” he asked pointedly, but brightened when Sam appeared at the back door. “Sammy! Good to—”  
  
But he broke off, frowning, and Sam stared impassively back at him.  
  
“Whoa,” Gabriel remarked, watching Sam come down the steps. “Serious chills. Lose something important, big guy?”  
  
“I was busy escaping from Lucifer’s cage,” Sam snapped back. “Didn’t have time to grab all the luggage.” He turned to Dean. “Why is he alive?”  
  
Dean shook his head, straightening up. “God’s playing around again, apparently.” He glanced sideways at Castiel. “We need to talk?”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel said, nodding toward the yard. “With Gabriel’s assistance, we have found a weapon that could be of use.”  
  
Dean brightened immediately, following Castiel out into the rows of junked cars. “Hey, that’s great, Cas. What is it?”  
  
Castiel felt Balthazar’s pained, sympathetic look, but didn’t return it; he had done his best, thus far, to conceal his crippling turmoil, and if he saw the pity on the other angel’s face, he wouldn’t be able to continue. He walked on until they were out of earshot, surrounded by piles of scrapped metal, then turned and held the Crown of Thorns out to Dean.  
  
Dean took it, carefully pinching around the thorns. “What is it?” he asked.  
  
“The crown that Jesus Christ wore when he was crucified,” Castiel answered, watching the hunter turn it delicately in his hands. “Gabriel has it on good authority that it was made to kill archangels.”  
  
Dean glanced up from his examination of the weapon, his eyes tight at the corners. “Good authority?” he repeated.  
  
“He claims that God informed him of its powers, when he was resurrected,” Castiel said stonily, his gaze falling to the dirt.  
  
“Hang on.” A flash of anger reached out through the bond; Castiel could do nothing to soothe it. “God _talked_. To Gabriel. Of all fucking...people, angels, whatever.”  
  
“It appears so,” Castiel replied.  
  
Dean stepped closer to squeeze his shoulder. “Cas,” he said gruffly. “I’m sorry. That’s...wow. That’s a dick move.”  
  
The sudden touch of Dean’s unwavering support was overwhelming, so he just nodded, absorbing the warmth, as Dean looked back down at the Crown dangling from his hand.  
  
“So, what, you just...put this thing on, and it’ll burn Raphael to a crisp?”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel said, and he suddenly wished that he could keep the hunter in ignorance, if only to spare them both the confrontation that would certainly follow. “Gabriel has volunteered to draw Raphael out, and then aid our forces in holding off his legions while I confront him.”  
  
Dean’s hand fell from his shoulder. “What aren’t you telling me?” he asked slowly. “It all sounds good, but you’re...” He trailed off, but Castiel knew what he meant.  
  
“The Crown requires an angel’s Grace, as a power source,” Castiel said, still not looking at Dean; he didn’t want to see the look dawning in the hunter’s eyes as he realized what the Crown truly meant. “It will kill Raphael, but it’s unlikely that I’ll survive.”  
  
Dean was still, quiet—so still that Castiel feared he would have to repeat himself, so quiet that he worried his friend had gone into shock, but then Dean’s hand cupped his chin and forced him to look up, straight into green eyes that glinted with desperation.  
  
“We’ll find another way,” Dean said, and his voice cracked. “Put the damn thing on Gabriel, he deserves—”  
  
“It won’t work for him,” Castiel said mechanically. “The archangels are incapable of using it. It’s coded not to recognize their Grace—otherwise they would have used it to their respective advantages by now.”  
  
Dean shook his head, his eyes still fixed on Castiel’s. “Then we’ll find another way.” His voice _begged_ , raw, open, terrified. Castiel hated the sound of it, hated the agony lining Dean’s face. “There’s gotta be other weapons, something else that would work—”  
  
“There’s nothing,” Castiel replied bleakly. “Against ordinary angels, many of the weapons would be useful, but there’s very little that could destroy or deter an archangel. This is the only way.”  
  
“Dammit, Cas, there’s gotta be something else,” Dean insisted. He dropped the Crown; his hands curled around Castiel’s shoulders, fingers digging in.  
  
“Gabriel thinks I have a chance,” Castiel said. “It’s not ideal, but this connection could keep me alive. Nothing is certain. The Crown has never been used before, and our situation is unique.”  
  
They looked at one another, Dean’s desperation bleeding into Castiel’s despair. “No,” Dean said, shaking his head. “No. This can’t be _it_. God didn’t bring you back for this, just to fucking die again, He can’t be that heartless.”  
  
“I don’t know why I was resurrected,” Castiel said quietly. “I chose free will. There isn’t a path to follow, Dean. We’re making this up. Whatever God intended is irrelevant.”  
  
“This is worse than the armory,” Dean said hoarsely. “This is suicide. You can’t.” He blinked, swallowed hard. “Use me instead. Use my soul. It was more than enough to take on Virgil, it’d be enough—”  
  
“I won’t risk your life,” Castiel interrupted harshly. “You wouldn’t survive. It would kill you. The amount of power I’d need to kill Raphael—”  
  
Dean stepped back, letting go. “You might as well.” His shoulders tensed in defense. “I’d rather be dead than watch you burn yourself out. Hell, I’d rather be back in the Pit with Alastair.”  
  
The force of his words was like a physical blow; the accompanying conviction was dizzying. “You don’t mean that,” Castiel said blankly.  
  
“Does it feel like I don’t mean it?” Dean demanded roughly. “What else do I have to live for, Cas? To watch one more person who means a damn thing to me just go out in a blaze of glory? I’m already a fucking wreck—what else will I be good for when you’re gone? Scheming to get Sam out of Hell until it kills me? Keeping Bobby company while we both drink ourselves into an early grave?” He snorted, gave Castiel a disgusted look. “Sounds fuckin’ spectacular. Sign me up. Glad I’ve got somethin’ to look forward to.”  
  
“Dean,” he said, and now _he_ was pleading. “I have lived a long time. It would not be fair—to you, when you have lived so little—to rob you of the years you have left, so that I could go on existing forever.”  
  
“I’ve already lived too damn much,” Dean retaliated, turning away. “Besides, what’s the difference? We’d win—I’d end up in Heaven—you, new sheriff in town and all that, could just...find me there. It’d be like I’d never died.”  
  
“It wouldn’t work that way,” Castiel said, as gently as he could. “You’d have no soul left. It would burn out in battle; you would cease to exist at all, the way angels do when they die.”  
  
“Fine,” Dean said. His voice sounded flat, emptied of emotion, but Castiel could feel him hurting, aching, torn from the inside like a hellhound was clawing its way out. “I don’t care.”  
  
Castiel reached out, touched Dean’s shoulder, and even though the hunter tensed, he held on. “It’s not a guarantee that I would die,” he said.  
  
“It’s a chance. A bad one.”  
  
“You let Sam say yes to Lucifer and throw himself into the Pit, knowing there was no hope of him ever returning,” Castiel pointed out. “How is this any different?”  
  
“Because Sam is already gone,” Dean snapped, spinning again to face Castiel and knocking his hand aside. “And I had something to fall back on then. I had the prospect of a normal life and—and I could hope that you and Bobby would survive—and if you died, well, chances were I was going down, too. But this time...I know the normal life will never work for me, and if you’re gone there’s no reason...” He swallowed again, and Castiel saw him choking down his anguish. “What would I have left? I’ve lost my brother,” and his voice shook, and he lifted a hand to his jaw to try to cover the tremor, but Castiel saw it, anyway, “and with you gone my chances of getting him back are slim to none. I know me, Cas, and I know I’d burn myself out anyway, screw up on a simple job or just get careless to make it end, so tell me, honestly, what would I have left?”  
  
“Your _life_ ,” Castiel insisted. Dean’s despair was warping him, twisting him until he could hear nothing else. “Your _soul_ , Dean. Do those things mean so little to you?”  
  
“You _know_ me,” Dean said fiercely. “I don’t give a damn about my life—about my soul—when it comes to this. I sold them both to bring Sam back, and I’d do it again if there was a demon powerful enough to take on Raphael.”  
  
Castiel knew he shouldn’t be flattered, or even surprised, by that declaration, but he was nonetheless. Half the time, he still saw the Dean that demanded everything of him and offered nothing in return, even if that man was long gone. He opened his mouth to speak, but could think of nothing worthwhile to say, nothing that would articulate the remorse—the gratitude—that Dean could already feel.  
  
Dean closed the gap between them, lifted a hand to Castiel’s cheek, ran a thumb over his skin; the gesture was strangely intimate, even more so when Dean’s fingers folded gently around his neck, brushing into his hair.  
  
“Please,” Dean whispered. “Cas. Don’t go.”  
  
Castiel closed his eyes. It seemed like the right thing to do as Dean leaned in; the darkness let him bleed into the warmth of Dean’s palm, let him feel every callous and fingerprint. He felt Dean’s thumb stroke, again, just over his skin, leaving the memory of warmth behind, as the hunter’s nose brushed past his, as his lips slipped in and parted Castiel’s. Dean’s arm looped around his waist, drawing him in, and he did the only thing that made sense, impulsively, instinctively: he lifted his hand and gripped tight into Dean’s shoulder, feeling the scar thrum like a living thing in recognition, and Dean’s arm tightened around him, and the kiss was suddenly bruising, a force that left him ravaged when Dean finally pulled back, the barest inch, to look him in the eye.  
  
“Don’t,” he said, his voice weaker than it had been. Mindlessly, Castiel was leaning up, running his fingers up into the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck, silencing Dean’s broken voice, and Dean held onto him with fingertips that bruised.  
  
That was all Dean had ever done, held onto the ones he loved with all the strength he possessed, and just once, Castiel hoped it would be enough.


	8. Cut Me Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Me and Sam, we were both forfeit, all for a holy pissing match. My life...it’s never been mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnotes for warnings about this chapter.

Dean crumbled beneath Cas’s fingertips, just dug hands into the angel’s hips and hauled him closer, clung, touched, and Cas kissed him like he’d been starving for it, for _this_ , for Dean. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t remember what he was doing or why he was doing it, only that he’d figured it out, facing down death one last time: he knew what he wanted from Cas. It was too big, too tangled, but he could see it now. He felt it in the fingers carding through his hair, tasted it on the chapped lips pressing into his, and he was blind with it, paralyzed the way he’d once been in the face of the angel’s wrath; it was bright, vivid, and Cas’s eyes were so fucking _blue_ when they finally stopped and stared at each other, and he knew, with a sickening swoop in his gut, that it didn’t change a damn thing.  
  
“I know,” he said finally, because he shouldn’t really expect Cas to talk after that. “I’ve known, for a long time, that my life doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to everyone I protect just by doin’ what I do. It belongs to the world, because it doesn’t keep spinnin’ unless I get out and push. Ever since...ever since Mom made that damn deal. Maybe earlier than that, I guess, since the whole thing was down to us from the beginning. Me and Sam, we were both forfeit, all for a holy pissing match. My life...it’s never been mine. I talk big game, free will, screwing destiny in the face, but I can’t walk away from this stupid war—not the Holy Civil War, or whatever, but this. Hunting monsters. Saving people.”  
  
“Neither can I,” Cas said, a little sadly. “One way or another, we’ll die. Shouldn’t it be for a reason? That’s what you told me, Dean,” and he looked so fucking _earnest_ that it made Dean sick, because this was what he’d done, led Castiel by the hand to his hard-won death by free will, “that if there was ever anything worth dying for, this was it, and I believed it long before you,” his voice suddenly sharpening, “I already believed, I already...I already _doubted_. Humans,” and the corners of his lips ticked up, just a bit, “you are confusing, terrible, suffering creatures, but there was always something so beautiful about you, and I can’t let it be laid to waste. You just gave me purpose, Dean. Don’t belittle my sacrifice with your guilt complex.”  
  
“Hey,” he protested weakly, straightening Cas’s trench coat. “Shut up.”  
  
And that was it; he looked down into the face of the angel— _his_ angel—and he was saying goodbye to another person he loved, because that, well. That was what he was good at. They went in droves, seemed like, Mary and John, Jo and Ellen, Sam, and he let them, let them make the sacrifices he’d make himself if he wasn’t the one who was supposed to be left behind and alone. He didn’t have much left, and it was worse every time; nothing could really compare to watching Sam fall into that box forever, but Cas. Cas was something else. Cas was his salvation. It was hard to see him as anything other than that, when he’d hauled Dean from the Pit, rebelled for him, died for him, saved his ass a dozen times even when Dean didn’t deserve it, when Dean was ungrateful, when Dean was unworthy. And there had been something so wrenching about watching Cas explode into parts last time, about leaving him behind on a suicide mission to stall the first time; it would be worse now, now that everything was different. Now that Cas was more than his salvation, more, even, than his best friend.  
  
“What will happen,” Dean said, trying to be detached, “to you?”  
  
Cas’s shoulders lifted in a half-awkward shrug, and they were still standing close, still touching, and Dean breathed it in, every little detail, even if it would be an open wound, angry and infected, after. “Angels have no afterlife,” he said. “No Heaven, no Hell. Just...oblivion. We live a long while; forever seems superfluous, after that.”  
  
There seemed to be nothing left to say; Dean knelt down to the dirt, picked up the Crown, held it out to Cas, who took it gingerly, carefully. He looked suddenly small, despite the wings that arched out behind him, shielding them from the sun.  
  
“Balthazar and the other angels will engage Raphael’s legions,” he said, considering the Crown, “with Gabriel, once he draws Raphael out and directs him to me.”  
  
Dean nodded. “Simple enough.”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel agreed, looking up. “I only hope that the aftermath will be as straightforward.”  
  
Dean’s hand lifted; he touched Cas’s cheek, one more time, felt the warmth and the distant curl of pleasure unfolding from the angel as the blue eyes closed, as Cas leaned into his touch. He wanted to say something, anything, but he couldn’t find the right words, not for this. _Sorry I waited so long_ , or _sorry it had to end like this?_ And he thought of a world without Castiel, Angel of the Lord, and it seemed bleak, a dark and hopeless place, because Cas had been his guardian for a long time, but he wasn’t just that. He watched over Earth, all of it, when no other angel would, and there weren’t angels like that, there weren’t angels that _good_.  
  
“Good _God_ , is this what’s been going on all this time?”  
  
They turned simultaneously toward the voice; Dean automatically backed up, fell in beside Cas, groped behind him for the crowbar he’d seen leaning against a car. A short man, well-dressed, stepped out from behind a pile of scrap metal, and Dean swore violently at the sight.  
  
“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Crowley went on, wearing a self-satisfied smirk. “Full of surprises.”  
  
Dean felt Cas’s intention before he carried it out; he took an automatic step back as Cas stretched out a hand and burned a Devil’s Trap into the ground around Crowley. The demon didn’t look at all surprised. Dean glanced sideways at the angel, impressed.  
  
“This is a bad time,” Dean pointed out, and then, to Cas, “You can do that?”  
  
“I noticed,” Crowley said, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Real drama unfolding, here. The Righteous Man and the Fallen Angel—that’s the kind of romance the soccer moms swoon over. Your chances at a Daytime Emmy are stupendous.”  
  
“What do you want?” Cas said, impatience in his voice.  
  
Crowley’s eyes briefly gleamed red. “I’ll remind you that I’ve still got rights to a certain soul,” he advised, the trace of a smirk gone. “And warn you once to show a little respect.”  
  
How had Dean ever let that slip his mind? That Bobby’s soul was still hanging in the balance, that in the confusion of all that had happened in the last few weeks, they hadn’t even _discussed_ it.  
  
“And you said you’d return those rights when all was said and done,” Cas returned sharply. “That was the deal.”  
  
“And I will,” Crowley said smoothly, sliding hands into his pockets. “I’m a man of my word, angel. But all is _not_ said and done, is it? You’re all preparing to mount a new attack. That non-Apocalypse thing didn’t hold quite right. One archangel still running around outside the box...bad news.”  
  
“What’s it to you?” Dean said, taking a step forward with the raised crowbar.  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes. “You plunge to new lows of intellectual capability every time I see you, Winchester. Because I have no bloody love of a happening Apocalypse. It’s bad news for the King of Hell, no matter who wins.”  
  
“I wasn’t aware there was such a position,” Cas said, eyeing the demon with skepticism.  
  
“Well,” Crowley allowed, “there wasn’t, since the boss didn’t do much good from his cage for all those millennia, but the position was there for the taking. And Hell needs it. Place is utter chaos.”  
  
“Thought that was kind of the point,” Dean muttered.  
  
“Look, the Crown of Thorns is tricky business,” Crowley said, addressing Cas. “The thing could kill you—last time anyone wore it, that’s exactly what happened. It’s not worth the risk. I’ve got a better way.”  
  
“Hold up,” Dean rumbled, gesturing toward Crowley with the crowbar; Cas ducked neatly out of the way. “This thing has never been used before, asshole. We don’t know what it does.”  
  
“You have an angelic boyfriend and you still haven’t learned the most basic of scripture,” Crowley reprimanded. “You moron. Where do you think that thing got its power? It wasn’t a weapon when Christ wore it, but it sure as Hell is now. If it killed its maker through the sheer force of its forging—and its maker was _God_ —how do you think poor Cas here is going to fare with it? Do you think he could even _operate_ it long enough to do the damage before his face melts off?”  
  
“I think my wings will burn before my face melts,” Cas interjected calmly. Dean felt the sudden, violent urge to rip his own hair out.  
  
“God isn’t dead,” he said instead, frowning at Crowley. “I mean, yeah, he’s a deadbeat dad, total absentee father, but he’s not _dead_.”  
  
“It killed his vessel,” Crowley clarified, waving a dismissive hand. “And he’s been AWOL ever since, so you put two and two together. Look, I have a deal for you. Do you want to hear it or not?”  
  
“A deal,” Cas repeated, the hint of a scowl on his features. “I don’t have a _soul_.”  
  
“You do, actually,” Crowley muttered, eyeing Dean, “but that isn’t the point. It’s not a soul I’m after. Or, rather, not just _one_ measly little soul, despite how shiny Dean would be on my trophy shelf.” He smirked. “Purgatory, my friend. You want to take down Raphael? You need a load of souls to do it. And they’re all just sitting round for the taking down in Monster Heaven.”  
  
“Purgatory,” Dean said flatly. Cas had mentioned it in passing, but Dean had long since thought of it as outside of his jurisdiction, because _something_ had to be.  
  
“No one knows where Purgatory is,” Cas replied, suspicious.  
  
“Well, no,” Crowley admitted. “But we could find it. You.” He gestured to Dean. “You and that big soulless oaf of a brother of yours can get the monsters. The monsters can get us Purgatory.”  
  
“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Dean snarled, hurling the crowbar; it narrowly missed Crowley and embedded in the junker behind him instead. “Does everyone fucking know that Sam doesn’t have a soul?”  
  
“Easy enough to figure out,” Crowley replied, raising one eyebrow. “I can hear that damn cage rattling every time I visit the lower levels. Lucifer is still having fun with his plaything or we’d be hearing Michael shrieking day and night. Bet him and the devil have signed a cease-fire just to hate-fuck the living shit out of poor little Sammy.”  
  
Dean’s stomach dropped; for a moment, his rage was so strong that his vision blurred. “You son of a bitch,” he said fiercely.  
  
“And before you ask, no, I can’t get him out,” Crowley added, raising his hands. “If Cas here couldn’t do it, I’ve got no chance. I’ll tell you who _could_ do it, though. Castiel hopped up on half the souls in Purgatory.” He raised an eyebrow. “Eh? What do you say, my fine feathered friend? It’s practically a three-for-one deal. Raphael’s head however you’d like it; Sam’s soul; and living for a very, very long time. Can’t go wrong there.”  
  
Cas stretched out a hand and, in an instant, the Devil’s Trap was gone. Crowley looked pleased.  
  
“We’ll consider it,” Cas said, his tone threatening. “Leave, before I allow Dean the pleasure of exorcising you.”  
  
Crowley smirked. “Ta then, boys,” he said, and promptly vanished on the spot.  
  
For a long moment, Dean stared at the spot where Crowley had disappeared, at war with himself. He knew—knew in his gut, knew in his bones, knew in the skin that still remembered being shredded by hellhounds—that a deal with another demon would never be a good idea, but he wanted the space to hope, just for an instant, that Cas could survive this war, and this was their best shot.  
  
“We should talk to the others,” he said finally, and ignoring Cas’s unease, turned back toward Bobby’s house, the angel following in his wake.  
  
  
  
“Come _on_ , Dean,” Sam groaned, leaning back against the Impala. “We know better than this. Another deal with another demon? Doesn’t that strike you as a bad idea, considering our family history?”  
  
“There are no _souls_ on the table,” Dean growled back, folding his arms over his chest. Castiel watched, pained, while the brothers faced off. “Except for Bobby’s, anyway, and it’s in hisfavor if we—”  
  
“Don’t drag me into this, boy,” Bobby snapped from the stairs. “Getting my soul back is not a good enough reason to make this massive of a pact with Crowley.”  
  
“Yes, it is,” Dean said flatly. “I’ve been to Hell, Bobby. You don’t want to vacation there for an eternity.”  
  
“There are plenty of other ways to get out of his contract,” Bobby retaliated. “Just have to exert the right pressure in the right place. I was lookin’ into it before the Apocalypse decided to go a second round.”  
  
“What do you think, Cas?” Sam asked, his green eyes moving to the angel.  
  
Castiel shifted uneasily as Dean turned to stare at him, too, his mouth pressed in a hard, angry line. “I have reservations about either method,” he replied. “There is no telling what the Crown of Thorns or millions of souls will do to me—either could feasibly rip me apart before I even exert their power on Raphael.”  
  
“Cas, come on,” Dean pleaded. Castiel looked up to meet his wild, desperate gaze, felt the force of the pleading in his soul, and wondered how he would ever be able to refuse. “The souls route is safer. Slower, yeah, but safer. And Crowley needs this as much as we do.”  
  
“Crowley has no idea what is entombed in Purgatory,” Gabriel interrupted. “He couldn’t fathom how dangerous it would be to open that door.” The archangel shot a glance at Castiel. “You know better, Castiel. You know what’s in Purgatory just dying to come crawling out. Take this deal and we’re not only going to be dealing with Raphael breathing down our necks, we’ll have Leviathan wrecking havoc. We can’t handle them— _you_ can’t handle them. They’re more powerful than we are.”  
  
Castiel knew he was right. Leviathan were some of the oldest beasts—the hungriest, the most destructive. There was a reason why his Father had locked them in Purgatory; they were too powerful a force to safely cohabit with anything else.  
  
“Leviathan,” Dean repeated, but the memory was already dawning on his features, side-by-side with defeat.  
  
“Think of the biggest, ugliest monster you’ve ever ganked, and multiply it by a thousand,” Gabriel snorted. “God locked them in Purgatory when he realized they’d never play nice with others. And they _will_ get out if you take this deal. It’s no contest. No way are we opening that door.”  
  
Everyone was suddenly looking at Castiel: Sam critically, Bobby sympathetically, Gabriel with the petulant air of a child, and Dean with desperation, with fear, with pain, with rage. He felt it through their blown-open bond, the _please_ and the _don’t leave me, don’t die, don’t leave me_ , and even if it was coupled with a deflating acceptance, even if Dean understood that this wasn’t an option, it was too much weight.  
  
“I need to think,” Castiel murmured. He took flight without another word, trying to press down the relentless scream of Dean’s pain until he couldn’t feel it.  
  
  
  
“The way I see it, Cassie, you have three choices.”  
  
Balthazar had missed the confrontation with Crowley, busy as he’d been in informing the other angels of the weapon they’d found, of the news— _we’re saved_ , Castiel thought, but it seemed a hollow thing, a vague reminiscence of the words he’d cried out on his escape from Hell. _Dean Winchester is saved_. Joy, hope—he’d thrilled with those things to announce the victory, but this didn’t feel like a victory. Balthazar had found him hours later, high in the peaks of Mount Everest, sitting adrift in a snow bank, wondering how far he had to go to keep himself from feeling Dean’s panic.  
  
“One: you can say bugger-all and do nothing, and we’ll all die anyway, Winchester included.” Balthazar took a long drag off of his cigarette and offered it to Castiel, who declined. “Two: you can go the Crown of Thorns route, and you might die, yeah, or you might not. Either way, the world is probably saved. Three: you can make a deal with the King of Hell and potentially risk unleashing Leviathan on the whole wide world, but if you managed not to suck them up with all the other souls down there, then you’d probably live.” Balthazar shrugged, leaning back into the snow. “Basically, mate, you have three absolutely shit options, and I don’t envy you.”  
  
“The Crown of Thorns is the only option,” Castiel said wearily.  
  
Balthazar nodded. “Dean doesn’t like those odds, though, does he?”  
  
Castiel frowned, staring out across the black expanse of snowy wilderness. It was night on Everest, and bitterly cold; despite his Grace, he could feel it. Uncomfortable, raw, the knowledge that if he was human, he would be dead from it, and for a moment, he wished he was.  
  
“Dean is not confident in my chances,” Castiel admitted. “He knows, though. He understands the danger of Leviathan.”  
  
Balthazar gave him a knowing look. “He doesn’t want you to die.”  
  
“I’m all he has left,” Castiel said, the words ripped from his throat without thought. “He has endured so much loss. The idea terrifies him.”  
  
“You two are pathetic,” Balthazar said matter-of-factly, taking another long drag from his cigarette. “Honestly. It’s sickening. Talk about dangerous co-dependence. I think this _surpasses_ that.”  
  
“He has suffered unjustly,” Castiel pointed out, struggling to keep his voice even. “And enormously, for a human being. The few people he’s ever taken the time to care about have all been ripped from him.”  
  
“I know,” Balthazar said, his tone a little gentler now. “And he’ll suffer more if you die, but it seems like that’s what he was made to do. Suffer. Wholeheartedly. So that all the other human saps could go on obliviously, having lives that were hard-won for them without their knowing.”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel murmured. Even to him, the answer sounded sad. “I wish things were different.”  
  
Balthazar rested a hand on his shoulder, a silent show of support. Castiel was grateful. “So do I, Cassie.”  
  
The nickname sounded less whimsical, and more affectionate, now.  
  
  
  
He returned to Bobby’s as night fell on Sioux Falls, told the others his decision—the decision they’d already known—in the dying light of day. Sam nodded curtly, an alien relief in his eyes; Gabriel made a quip that was, for him, terribly half-hearted; Bobby exhaled, a long breath of reprieve, as though this broke the Winchester curse of making deals with demons for good. No chance of that, Castiel could have told him. Dean was already humming to chase down the King of the Crossroads himself—would gladly sell his soul anew to guarantee Castiel’s survival—but Castiel reminded them all that summoning Crowley again would jeopardize their chances of a smooth final battle, and Dean’s resolve collapsed. The hunter left the room, slamming the back door on his way out. Bobby’s eyes went to Castiel with understanding, with compassion, and he nodded back, the most he could manage, before descending to the panic room to wait out the night.  
  
He sat on the old mattress and listened to the movements above him. Sam’s footsteps eventually rose and left the house; Bobby’s, slower and older, tired, plodded to the stairs and up them, but Castiel heard him pacing in his bedroom, restless. Mostly, though, he listened to Dean in the distance, breaking the windows of more old cars, and wished that going to him would comfort him, but he knew it would make no difference. It was better if he kept his distance. Dean knew where he was; he would come if he wanted to.  
  
He thought of the angels he had said his goodbyes to today, the ones that looked at him with admiration and stared at the Crown with awe as he moved among them. He didn’t pray, not anymore, but he still hoped for them all to see the battle through, to rebuild when the war was over, and if his sacrifice accomplished nothing else, he hoped it would strengthen them. He hoped that it would open their eyes, allow them to see the Earth, humanity, with love rather than revulsion.  
  
An hour passed, then two, and finally Dean’s heavy boots thudded back into the house, up the stairs. Castiel heard the creak of a shower starting, and the heavy pulse of Dean’s pain softened as he warmed beneath the water. It was short, just long enough to rinse and soap away the debris of a day spent breaking cars, and then Dean’s footsteps moved again, softer now, to rifle through his bag for clean clothes.  
  
Castiel hoped, painfully, that Dean would seek him out. If it was truly his last night on Earth, he wanted no other company, but he wouldn’t inflict himself on the suffering hunter, and it was difficult, as always, to make sense of what Dean wanted most. Soon, though, his patience was rewarded; feet pressed quietly into the floorboards, bare, and Castiel listened to the soft thumps as Dean made his way down the first and second set of stairs. And then Dean was approaching the panic room and pulling the door shut behind him, his hair still damp and clothes clinging to the body that Castiel had once remade, piece by piece.  
  
Dean didn’t speak; he just strode slowly forward, his eyes fixed on Castiel’s, until he stood between the angel’s knees, their legs just barely brushing. His fingers threaded into Castiel’s hair, and he closed his eyes at the touch, the sensation still so new, so strange, and if that was all he had left, he would cling to it until he burned out, the unspoken acceptance and affection that trailed from Dean’s fingertips and pressed into his skin.  
  
Dean sank to his knees, his fingers untangling from Castiel’s hair to trail down his cheek, down his chest, until his hands rested on Castiel’s thighs and the angel opened his eyes to find the hunter gazing up at him. “Last night on Earth,” Dean said, his lips turning up in a lopsided smile. “What’re your plans?”  
  
He seemed to know that Castiel couldn’t speak, that his heart seemed to have moved, pounding, into his throat, that all his efforts were focused on gulping air he didn’t need; a gentle hand came up, cupped the back of Castiel’s neck, and pulled him down until their lips met, a soft touch that made him dizzy, made him shake. His fingers dug hard into the mattress, but Dean gently pried them up, one by one. “Relax, Cas,” he murmured against Castiel’s neck, light and reassuring. “Just you and me. I’ve got you.”  
  
He leaned forward, brushed a kiss beneath Castiel’s jaw, and the angel shuddered, a spark of pleasure catching in his chest, uncoiling low in his stomach. Dean’s hands slid down his arms, pushing off his trench coat in one fluid, slow motion, his nose pressing into the hollow at the base of Castiel’s throat, and the angel felt him inhale, deeply, breathing in against skin. Tentatively, Castiel lifted a hand to stroke into Dean’s hair, and Dean exhaled softly into his shirt, spreading warmth.  
  
“Good,” he encouraged, his voice rough, and he lifted his head, brushing his mouth up the column of Castiel’s neck, and the angel _knew_ this, had seen it a thousand, a million times, but it hadn’t seemed like fire then, had been so distant and puzzling until Dean’s mouth—Dean’s _hands_ , pressing under his jacket and dragging it down his arms. “Do what feels good.”  
  
So Castiel dragged his fingertips down through Dean’s hair, and the hunter shivered beneath his touch; he pressed his mouth to Dean’s temple and Dean leaned into the kiss, his fingers pausing on Castiel’s tie. Then Dean was ducking down, pulling off his shoes and socks with quick hands, running a finger beneath the arch of his foot with a swift smirk, and Castiel squirmed at the sensation, a laugh forced out of his throat. “You’re ticklish,” Dean announced, as though that meant something—as though it was important—and leaned up to press his smile into Castiel’s laugh, his hands peeling apart the loose knot of the angel’s tie.  
  
Castiel felt as though he was drowning, and at the same time, as though he was already burning; he _wanted_ , wanted so much that he was blind with it, desperate with it, and it had never seemed like this, from a distance. It hadn’t seemed like this when Chastity leaned in to kiss him, either, just the paralysis of fear and a vague sort of disgust at human conduct. He had wondered if that was all there was to sex, a mindless, emotionless connection for brief, shallow pleasure, but this was something else, something that burned in his Grace and echoed into Dean’s soul, and he wanted, he _wanted_ —  
  
His shirt had been removed, and Dean’s lips dragged down, over old scars, a damp, soft touch, and his head fell back without his consent. Dean’s hand clenched into the scar on his forearm and a hoarse, guttural moan tore from his throat; it was pleasure bordering on _pain_ and even the idea that he was vulnerable, in any way, to a human—to _this_ human—was intoxicating. Dean pressed up, pushed him down to the mattress, pulled his own shirt off over his head, and Castiel stared up into Dean’s eyes, the green edged out by pupils blown black, as the hunter followed him down to the bed and fell forward on his elbows, his body draping over and pressing into Castiel’s.  
  
His arms pressed into Castiel’s wings as they kissed, again, again, _again_ —Dean’s tongue chasing into his mouth, Dean’s teeth catching lightly at his lip, Dean’s weight taut over him, against him, and his hands were acting of their own accord, mindlessly running up and trailing down Dean’s back, feeling the sharp jut of a shoulder blade, the smooth dip of his spine. Dean’s fingers caught around his wrist, slotted Castiel’s hand into place against his shoulder, and the angel felt the sudden catch of pleasure as though it were his own, a sharp breath in against his mouth and the sudden press of Dean’s hips down into his—  
  
And Dean was surprised, Dean was _pleased_ , Dean was remembering Famine’s jab, remembering being a burned-out shell incapable of wanting a damn thing, but Castiel could feel how much he wanted, how much he longed, with so much force that it threatened to tear him open if he didn’t keep touching, didn’t keep feeling—“He was wrong,” Castiel said, his voice dark and fierce against the hollow of Dean’s throat, and Dean moaned, his fingers tightening deep into Castiel’s wing, “Famine was _wrong_ —”  
  
Dean crushed his mouth back to Castiel’s, his hand loosening and gliding lower, working open a belt buckle, pulling the zipper free, his fingers absently brushing Castiel’s stomach, his hip, and his skin jumped under the touch. It felt as though Dean had to rip himself away to lean up and work his pants down; Castiel pressed his heels into the mattress and lifted, trying to help, and then Dean was stripping out of his own jeans and sliding back up Castiel’s body. Dean’s hips ground down into his and he saw stars, sparking behind eyes he didn’t realize he’d closed, and Dean’s breath was soft and fast against his lips, panting.  
  
He pushed up, instinctively seeking out Dean’s warmth, rocking up against the hunter, and Dean groaned, one hand biting hard into his hip; he rolled them toward the wall, until Castiel was draped over Dean, and he faltered, looking down at the hunter with uncertainty. “Do what feels good,” Dean repeated, and his voice was shattered, yearning, his eyes glazed, his lips bruised with their last kiss. Castiel let his hand brace against the scar on Dean’s shoulder and the man writhed up, slipping against him. He pressed down; Dean raised a hand to his mouth, his eyes never leaving Castiel’s, and licked his palm before bringing it down between them and wrapping it around them both. The friction was suddenly that much better, smoother, so good that Castiel thrust without thinking and Dean groaned, hoarse.  
  
They moved together, the motion languid and quick by turns, soft breaths and sudden, dragging kisses, but it wasn’t enough, he wanted more, wanted something deeper, closer—he felt the aching warmth of Dean reaching out as though trying to crawl inside him and he wanted to let it, wanted with every wavelength of his being to have Dean pressing into him—  
  
“Lean up,” Dean murmured against his mouth, and reluctantly, Castiel obeyed, sitting back on his knees, legs pressing around Dean’s hips. Dean reached down, searching beneath the bed, and came up with a small bottle. He popped it open, poured a shiny liquid onto his fingers, and reached out to wrap his hand around them both again, stroking them together. Helpless, Castiel thrust against him, against his fingers, until Dean’s hand withdrew to pour out more of the liquid. “Stay busy,” he murmured, pressing his hips up with a smile at the corner of his mouth, washed out by the heated possession in his eyes, so Castiel went on thrusting while Dean’s fingers slid between his legs and slicked into him, one slow fraction at a time.  
  
It was torture; Castiel felt the slight sting of pain, but the pleasure slowly overwhelmed it, every time he slid back and Dean’s finger pressed deeper. Soon, he felt a second finger slip in beside the first, Dean’s other hand biting into his hip, steadying him, and then the fingers curled together and he cried out, not words, just noise, at the sudden rush. Dean went on like that, curving his fingers up and in, brushing the spot that elicited such a reaction every time, until Castiel was writhing down and back, trying to have more, deeper—and then Dean’s hand was gone from his hip, his fingers leaving Castiel bereft, but before he could protest the sudden absence Dean’s cock was nudging up and into him.  
  
“Slow,” Dean ordered, panting, and as Castiel sank down, he watched the features beneath him go rigid with ecstasy. Dean’s knees folded up, his thighs pressing into Castiel’s back, as Castiel writhed down, pushing Dean deeper, deeper—and then he was _there_ , breathing heavily, hesitating again, but Dean hauled himself up, his arms wrapping around Castiel’s back, murmured against his chest, “just move, Cas, just—yeah,” he rasped, as Castiel rose on his knees and slid back, “like that. _Fuck_ ,” he swore, his lips moving across the Enochian carved into Castiel’s skin.  
  
It was all a haze, now, Dean’s arms like a vice around him, Dean’s hands pressing into his shoulder blades and Dean’s fingertips brushing his wings, eliciting sparks with every touch; Castiel pressed up, slid down, lost in their tight, small movements, trapped, quivering, beneath the weight of their combined ecstasy, opened and vulnerable beneath the raw emotion that Dean poured into this act, into _him_. Dean’s breath was harsh and hot against his skin, and Castiel’s fingers were still gripped tight into the scar on his shoulder, his free hand running relentlessly into Dean’s hair, trailing through his sweat.  
  
“Cas,” Dean groaned, and he was rushing toward the precipice of something, teetering dangerously on the verge of falling, “ _Castiel_ ,” and the sound of his name falling from Dean’s lips in a guttural, broken moan snapped something inside him; he writhed down just as Dean frantically pressed up, and they were stiffening, crying out, Dean’s name an endless babble on his lips.  
  
He came back to Dean loose-limbed and at ease beneath him, his hands reassuring on Castiel’s back, twitching with tiny movements in his fingertips. Castiel turned his jaw to a more comfortable angle, so that his cheek pressed into Dean’s chest, and one hand lifted to stroke gently over his hair.  
  
“You okay?” Dean asked, his voice a quiet rumble beneath Castiel’s ear, and the angel smiled automatically.  
  
“Yes,” he confirmed, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, “if this was my last night on Earth, it was...” But the right word wouldn’t surface, and how could that be? He was fluent in every language in existence, but there was nothing to describe this.  
  
Dean seemed to understand. “It’s not,” he said, firm, with a conviction that radiated out to envelope Castiel in its warmth. “You’re gonna live. You always do.”  
  
Castiel rolled down to the bed and curled up to Dean’s side. The hunter groped for the blanket and pulled it over them, keeping his arm around Castiel’s shoulders.  
  
“Dean,” Castiel said, because it was so unlikely, because his chances were so poor, but Dean cut him off.  
  
“I’m serious,” he said, tipping his chin down to look Castiel in the face. “We’ve got no idea what that thing does.” Castiel squirmed closer, hooking his leg around Dean’s, and saw a smile tick up the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t kill us to be optimistic,” he finished, his head turning sideways on the pillow so that his lips brushed Castiel’s forehead.  
  
Amused despite the gravity of tomorrow, Castiel asked, “Are you always this positive after sex?”  
  
“You bet,” Dean grumbled into his hair. “Now go to sleep, and stop worrying.”  
  
“I’m not worried,” Castiel said softly, and for the moment, he wasn’t; the night seemed to stretch out endlessly, a night where he would bury himself in Dean’s warmth and listen to the hunter’s gentle snores and soothe away his nightmares; it seemed unfathomable that it, that _this_ , would ever end.  
  
“Good,” Dean murmured back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Graphic sex, located in this chapter's second half.


	9. Broken Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think this is God’s will? Carnage, destruction, our inferiority to these animals? Our Father would never demand such insanity; Earth’s survival is not his will!”

He left Dean sleeping as dawn trickled in, pulled on his clothes and shoes and made his way up and out of the house to watch the sunrise. Leaning back against the hood of the Impala, Castiel ran a finger over the frail circlet of woven thorn branches. It was unassuming, old, delicate, but he felt its presence as though it lived; a quiet hum passed out of the Crown of Thorns and settled in him, heavy as lead. It reminded him, almost, of the reassuring press of the Impala against his legs, the unsettling feeling that the car lived, too, given breath by Dean’s unquestioning love.  
  
Gabriel appeared first, beside him, subdued. His memories of the archangel were old—Gabriel had run away from Heaven a long time ago—but it had been unusual, even then, for Gabriel to be in anything but a joking mood. He was silent now, though, his features stone.  
  
“You made the right call, kid,” he said finally, and Castiel saw him eyeing the thorns in his hands.  
  
“I know,” Castiel replied. “I hope you do not underestimate your role in this, Gabriel.”  
  
A bare two years ago, he wouldn’t have dared speak to an archangel so boldly. He would have stood silent and obedient in the presence of his superiors, carried out their orders unquestioningly. He appreciated, for too brief a moment, what he had become, how he had changed, as Gabriel tipped his chin up and glared. He had no superiors, not anymore. An endless lifetime of stasis, interrupted by one man who didn’t push so much as drag him toward humanity, and he was grateful despite the impending loss, grateful because if he burned today he would die having glimpsed the heart of things, and before he tore the Righteous Man from Hell he’d been blind.  
  
“I’ll infiltrate Heaven and call out Raphael and his forces,” Gabriel said flatly. “After the battle, I’m done. Finding a more remote corner of the world to hide out in.” He snorted. “Maybe a more remote corner of the galaxy would suit me better.”  
  
“You are the sole remaining archangel, if Raphael dies today,” Castiel said, carefully setting the Crown on the hood of the Impala. “You’re the only one the other angels will all listen to.”  
  
Gabriel folded his arms across his chest. “And what am I supposed to be telling them?”  
  
“To go home,” Castiel said firmly, turning to face the archangel. “To never interfere with Earth again. Our usefulness here has expired. Tell them to do whatever they want, whatever they will. Stay in Heaven—Fall to Earth; it makes no difference, but they cannot interfere with humanity.”  
  
Gabriel’s features were oddly pitying. “Free will is not a gift you can give to angels, Castiel,” he said. “It means nothing to them. You and I, we’ve lived with humanity, they’ve rubbed off on us, we understand what it’s like to want and to feel—but we’re exceptions, not the rule.”  
  
“You have to try,” Castiel said.  
  
“I can keep them off Earth,” Gabriel assented. “I can’t guarantee they’ll do whatever they want, though.”  
  
“What else will they do?” Castiel countered. “There will be no structure of command, no hierarchy of power, no one to take orders from. You’ll stay in Heaven long enough to impress that upon them, and then leave.”  
  
Gabriel let out a short laugh. “You’ve gotten so sneaky, bro. Makes a guy proud.”  
  
“Thank you,” Castiel said wearily. “Lead Raphael and his forces to Earth, and remember to incapacitate when possible.”  
  
Gabriel rolled his eyes. “I take it back. You’re no fun.”  
  
“I’m sure you can think of more creative ways to keep them occupied than killing them,” Dean said, and Castiel looked up to find the hunter leaning against the back door. “You heard Cas. We want to keep the death toll low, even if they are all dicks.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Gabriel said, waving this off. “We’ll keep ‘em busy. Your little showdown won’t get interrupted by backup.”  
  
“Make sure Raphael finds me,” Castiel stressed.  
  
Gabriel saluted and vanished. Castiel looked back to Dean as he sighed, the sound heavy, and came down the steps. “Everything set?” he asked.  
  
“I’m just waiting for Balthazar,” Castiel answered, as Bobby and then Sam appeared at the door, too. “He’s supposed to check in when the angels are assembled.”  
  
“Consider them assembled,” Balthazar announced, stepping out from behind the Impala.  
  
“Speak of the devil,” Dean muttered.  
  
“Don’t,” Balthazar quipped, coming forward. “I’ve seen Gabriel. He’s on his way to Heaven now.”  
  
“Good,” Castiel answered; he reached forward, scooped the Crown up from the Impala, let it settle into his skin.  
  
“Let’s just hope he’s right about this thing,” Balthazar commented. “It wouldn’t shock me if his bloody vision from God was just an acid trip gone wrong.” He leaned forward to clasp Castiel’s shoulder. “No pressure, Cassie,” he added with a wink, and then he was gone.  
  
“They’re a friendly bunch,” Dean muttered, his tone mutinous. Castiel touched his shoulder, and Dean looked at him instead of at the Crown.  
  
“We are notoriously bad at goodbyes,” Castiel said, trying to keep his tone even. “When you’re immortal, you don’t get a lot of practice.” Dean managed a small smile at that, but his eyes were pinched at the corners, utterly pained, and Castiel felt his grief like the knife that had twisted into his heart in a barn on the outskirts of Pontiac.  
  
“You don’t have a lot of time,” Bobby said, coming forward. He gave the Crown a wide berth, speaking to Dean from a few paces away, and Castiel wondered if he could feel the weapon’s inherent strangeness. “Raphael will come after Cas as soon as he sees Gabriel.”  
  
“Right,” Dean said, his voice automatic. “We’ll take it a ways from the salvage yard. Don’t wanna destroy your reputable business.”  
  
“ _We_ ,” Bobby repeated suspiciously, eyeing the two of them.  
  
“Yeah.” Dean squeezed Castiel’s shoulder, left his hand there while he spoke, and Castiel took pleasure in the warmth of it while he could. “I’m going with him. In case the Crown fails, we’ll need my soul.”  
  
“That wasn’t part of the plan, boy,” Bobby growled.  
  
“I know,” Dean said. He looked sideways at Castiel, his brow furrowed just slightly. Their eyes met and held as Dean spoke, and Castiel couldn’t find the voice to protest against Dean’s sudden resolve, though it would put the hunter directly in the line of fire, weaken Dean’s chances for survival. “But I can’t let him go alone. And I need you to stay here. To get Sam’s soul back.”  
  
“You’re coming back, idjit,” Bobby said, but his voice was thick, and Castiel knew he didn’t believe it.  
  
“Sure,” Dean said, with an easy smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure, Bobby. We’ll be fine.”  
  
They fell silent; Castiel ran a thumb again over the circlet of thorns, and it hummed back, a different, heightened vibration. As the sensation reached Dean, he flinched, his unease echoing back to Castiel.  
  
“C’mon,” Dean muttered, his eyes flicking once to glimpse Sam’s face.  
  
Castiel reached out, pressed his fingertips to Dean’s temple, and they flew, leaving Bobby’s house behind in favor of a deserted field a few miles away. Dean’s anxiety reflected his own and doubled his misgivings on having the hunter present for this, but he didn’t have the strength to send Dean away.  
  
“Think this’ll work?” Dean asked, as Castiel turned the Crown over in his hands.  
  
“For the sake of your world, I hope so,” Castiel returned, looking up to meet Dean’s eyes. “I doubt I possess the strength to kill you for your cause.” Just speaking the words filled him with revulsion.  
  
Dean didn’t flinch at that, didn’t bat an eye. “When you hear me begging, you might.”  
  
Castiel shook his head and lifted the Crown, listening, but Dean reached out and gripped his forearm, just over the old scar of his hand. “Whatever happens...” He cleared his throat, and the emotion that came through the bond was nothing like Castiel had ever felt before: affection and friendship and attachment, all tangled up in sorrow and regret and loss. “I’m glad you found me,” he finished, and Castiel knew that he meant _in Hell_ , and _in Indiana_ , “even if we don’t have a snowball’s chance.”  
  
“What if this goes our way?” Castiel ventured.  
  
“What, and we both live?” Dean laughed, quick and low, and leaned forward, cupped Castiel’s jaw in the palm of his hand, pressed a rough kiss into the angel’s lips. When Dean pulled back, his eyes were wet, just barely glimmering, the green luminous.  
  
“Then I’ll keep my promise,” he said roughly. “We’ll make you human, we’ll hunt, anything.”  
  
“Together,” Castiel pressed, and Dean nodded, his jaw locked.  
  
“Together,” he repeated, just as a shadow fell over his face. They both looked up: clouds rushed in from the horizon, blotting out the sun. The first crackle of thunder sounded, and Dean’s gaze fell back to Castiel. “We’re out of time,” he said, and Castiel watched his shoulders stiffen, felt the turmoil in his gut replaced by steely resolve, as his eyes caught on something over Castiel’s shoulder.  
  
“Castiel,” Raphael boomed, and his eyes stayed on Dean’s as he quickly lifted the Crown to his head. “You shouldn’t have brought your pet.”  
  
The thorns dug into his scalp and the power inside the thing unlocked as he pushed Dean behind him, out of harm’s way, and turned to face Raphael. The archangel smiled, his hand already rising, as the Crown latched deep into Castiel’s Grace, an echo of the way Dean’s soul had once curled into him, tight, unyielding.  
  
“Stand down, Castiel,” Raphael ordered. “Even Gabriel cannot withstand my legions; would you truly have your angels suffer for your pride?”  
  
“This is not pride,” Castiel bit back.  
  
One eyebrow arched, Raphael took a single step forward. “You poor fool,” he sneered, and his fingers flexed, and his palm glowed; Castiel flung out his wings, shielding Dean from the light. “Do you think _this_ is God’s will? Carnage, destruction, our inferiority to these animals? Our Father would never demand such insanity; Earth’s survival is not his will!”  
  
“No,” Castiel agreed, as the Crown reached deep and Raphael’s face contorted with rage. “It’s mine.”  
  
Raphael’s fingers twitched, the light glowed brighter, and Castiel felt the Crown’s power building, building, until he was washed out in the wake of its brilliance, until the pulse of Dean’s soul was all that kept him from breaking apart—  
  
—but the Crown had a mind of its own, and he was powerless to stop it as it swept him away from the clearing, Dean’s tethered soul following quickly after. His legs struck ground in the middle of a crowd of people and Dean staggered beside him.  
  
“Where are we?” Dean demanded, his hand tight on Castiel’s shoulder as he balanced himself.  
  
No heads turned their way at Dean’s voice, despite its volume; the crowd didn’t appear to see or hear them. Castiel only took a second to process it all: the curving dirt roads, the crowds of people pressing close, the feel of the place, like a battle poised to begin. It pulsed with tension; it reeked of turning points.  
  
“Gethsemane,” he said, reaching for Dean’s arm to pull him through the crowd. The Crown’s influence had fallen to a low buzz in his conscious again, still intertwined with his Grace, but utterly inactive.  
  
“Bless you?” Dean said, raising his voice to be heard above the sudden jeers and wailing. It was a cacophony, vicious triumph and staggering loss, and it washed over Castiel with the strength of a memory, because he had been here, new to the Earth, new to humanity, when this crowd had gathered.  
  
“It’s in Jerusalem,” Castiel replied. “Where Christ was crucified.”  
  
They broke through the front ranks of the crowd and onto the emptied road, and Castiel saw him: dragging the cross, a circlet of thorny branches cutting into his head, bloodied and bruised, limping toward the place where he would die. Dean stilled at his side, tense, not watching Christ, eyes on the crowd around them.  
  
“Cas,” he said, his voice low and panicked. “There are demons everywhere. What the Hell is going on?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Castiel said helplessly, but when he reached up to attempt to remove the Crown, it dug into his skin, refusing to be budged. “I was here, when this happened. I had only been stationed on Earth a few decades, with my garrison, but I don’t understand why the Crown would bring us here.”  
  
“What is this?” Dean asked, a low rumble of disgust in his voice as he watched Christ drag himself forward. “Why are _demons_ here?”  
  
The spark of the Crown flared up again, and Castiel’s voice suddenly worked without his instruction, his jaw moving to form words he hadn’t planned to speak. “This was an attempt,” he said, the syllables warm on his tongue, the pulse of the Crown guiding them, “to push back the evil that had begun to overwhelm the Earth, the evil that creeped up from Hell when the souls of the damned proved too numerous to stay locked behind its gates. Our Father hoped, if He died for your sins and granted you forgiveness for your transgressions, that Hell’s populations would dwindle, and the demons, die. The angels are here to prevent demonic interference; the demons are here, waiting for an opening, waiting to disrupt the ritual.”  
  
Dean had gone pale, bone-white, and his hand was suddenly tightening painfully on Castiel’s, his eyes frantically searching Castiel’s face, as though he couldn’t see evidence of the angel there. “That’s not you,” he said, frantic, “Cas, I can _feel_ it, why the fuck is the Crown talking—talking _through_ you—”  
  
He wanted to reassure Dean, but could offer no other comfort than the brush of his Grace against the hunter’s soul as he spoke again, insistent, words that were not his own. “He had already been gone a long time,” he said, “and returned only to complete this ritual. His death served another purpose, one he didn’t divulge to any of his angels. In order to create a weapon powerful enough to serve as a failsafe against his archangels, who were already petty, power-hungry, and unaccountably jealous, he needed to take a human vessel, to fashion the Crown that would absorb enough of his power to remove the threat against Heaven and Earth, should those archangels ever overstep their bounds.”  
  
“Why are we here?” Dean demanded, his voice shaking. “Cas, Raphael is _there_ , Raphael—”  
  
“We are removed from time,” Castiel interrupted. The spark of the Crown was old, familiar, like the memories that were only vague impressions, ancient and timeless; it was as though he knew the weapon and the life hidden within it, though he had no recollection of it at all. “Raphael has not even noticed that we are gone.”  
  
Jesus dragged himself forward as black eyes flicked in the throngs of people and angels spread their wings in warning, from rooftops, from the roadside, forcing a stalemate between the two, allowing God to go on dying. Castiel knew that he was in this crowd, somewhere, but didn’t remember the face he’d worn then, and couldn’t have found himself if he’d tried.  
  
He felt Dean’s sudden spurt of panic a moment before the hunter spoke, his voice wrenching from his throat as though it was being struck out of him. Dean fought the influence of the Crown, but it was old and powerful, and his mouth worked against his will; Castiel raised a hand to his shoulder and gripped into the old scar, trying to calm him.  
  
“Castiel deserved to know,” Dean said. “The Crown may be used by any angel. When I stepped away, I meant you to have free will, to make your choices as you would, and so any angel—except Lucifer, Gabriel, Raphael, and Michael—could use it, if the need for its destruction was that great. But I made the Crown with you in mind, all the same; Castiel, who doubted; Castiel, who loved humanity more than any of his brothers or sisters could; Castiel, who had a better chance than any angel at leading them all to free will, to peace with humanity.”  
  
Castiel knew that God was not there, that He _couldn’t_ be there, that as they spoke this forced conversation, He was already hallucinating on the road to His crucifixion, but he stared into Dean’s eyes as the man spoke, and there was a flash of something, something he’d never seen there before. It was an imprint, an echo, something old, as old as the day they stood in, a thousand times older, but it was there nevertheless, and—  
  
“The Righteous Man has been successful where I was not,” Dean said; something in him had relaxed now, as though he, too, had adjusted to the alien presence of the Crown—as though he understood. “ _You_ have been successful where I was not, because I could not be, because my time has long since ended, because humanity was made to persevere on its own, without my guidance. I am forever indebted to the hunters who hold the gates against Hell, because I no longer have that power. I cannot defend them, but you do, Castiel, against the terrible threat of Heaven—”  
  
“And you do, Dean, against that bottomless Pit,” Castiel finished. “I died on this road over two millennia ago, and I hoped—I hoped that you, and others like you, would be enough to protect my children.”  
  
The bloodied, bruised man who had once been God was raised on the cross He had carried; the crowd pressed close, believers and sinners, angels and demons, and Castiel, for the first time, noticed hunters in the crowd, furtively clutching their stores of holy water, murmuring Latin under their breaths. Demons were exorcised, hunters were attacked, and the angels stood back, watching, as the multitude writhed in the ensuing chaos and the scene faded from view and they were, suddenly, back in the field, facing Raphael.  
  
Castiel pushed Dean back with his wings, even as Dean’s fingers dug into his wrist, trying to hold on, even as he bellowed, “Wait, Cas, _wait!_ ” because he was alive with the power of the Crown, alive with his understanding of it, and it had been a long time since he’d been grateful to God, but he found himself thankful for the stale words of a dying deity, a creature that had fatally wounded itself to save the ones it loved, because Castiel knew something about that, after all. He had done it before, and, he thought, if he had the chance, he would do it again—would face down an archangel with the dwindling power of a lowly soldier, would throw holy fire at his big brother as a weak, vulnerable human, would risk removing himself from existence time and again if it meant that Dean and his fight lived on.  
  
Dean’s panic, his rage, his desperate sorrow and bone-deep, abiding love reached him through the bond as he lifted a hand and let the power gather until it glowed, bright enough to blind a mortal, but Dean was safely behind his wings, kept back by the sheer force of the power of the Crown of Thorns. Raphael paused in his forward march, suddenly uncertain, and Castiel saw his opening: he let the energy go, let it sear out in a beam so raw and brilliant that it burned through him with the force of millions of souls, stripping his Grace from his bones, until Raphael was burned into the ground, and Dean’s voice was a distant, tinny shout as he fell into darkness.  
  
  
  
Dean started screaming when Cas began to burn.  
  
He was deaf to his own words; he only knew that he was shouting, howling himself hoarse as the Crown scorched Cas from the inside out. It lit up his veins with a liquid fire that Dean could feel, turning Cas’s trench coat to cinders as the flames caught on his clothes and burned them up. He struggled to get past the invisible wall that the Crown threw up, protecting the angel wearing it from outside interference while it slowly killed him, because Dean _knew_ , knew with horrible certainty as Cas’s consciousness slowly receded from his mind, that the angel was _dying_. Raphael was shrieking, a horrible, endless din, but Dean didn’t have the sight to spare on the suffering archangel: his eyes were full of Cas, Cas crumpling, Cas falling, his wings flung out and caught with bright flames as he collapsed.  
  
The wall separating them died, so that Dean fell through it, scrabbling in the dirt before staggering upright. He stumbled to Cas, to the angel curled on the ground, his arms loosely wrapped around his knees, the fires on either side of him already dead. Dean could feel him fighting for consciousness, struggling to stay awake. He dropped to his knees, reached out to roughly turn Cas by the shoulder toward him; the blue eyes were half-open and dazed, struggling to focus on Dean, as glittering black ash fell away from his shoulder blades.  
  
“Cas,” he said, panicked, grabbing the angel by both shoulders, trying to pull him up, “Cas, stay with me, buddy, you’re fine, you’re—”  
  
“Is Raphael dead?” Cas rasped, and his voice was more hoarse than it had been before.  
  
Dean spared the field a quick, cursory glance; ten yards in front of them, the Earth was blackened in the shape of spidery wings, ten times the size of Cas’s imprint. Everything in between was charred and dead. Raphael’s body had been burned into the ground.  
  
“Dead,” Dean said hoarsely, turning back to the angel. “He’s gone, you did it, but we should—we should _go_ —”  
  
Cas’s eyes rolled up, and he was still, his chest rising slowly with shallow breaths, his body slumped into the ground. With shaking hands, Dean reached out to tear the Crown of Thorns from Cas’s bloodied head. His hair was slick with it, dampening Dean’s fingers.  
  
“Cas,” he whispered, and the wings had been destroyed but he felt Cas, alive: dim, but alive. His hands went to work even as his mind froze, numb to the possibility that his angel was still dying. He pulled off his leather jacket and threw it over Cas. “Give me something, man,” he muttered, but Cas didn’t move, was deaf to his pleas. He reached out, automatic, to tangle his hand in the angel’s feathers and came up with a handful of ash; a mutilated noise of pain stripped from his throat as his hand went to Cas’s forearm instead, dug into the scar that still stood out there, livid, and when the touch did nothing, when the blood streaming from his skin didn’t stop, he tried to will Cas healed, but nothing changed.  
  
He pulled his hand back and tried to claw his cell phone from his pocket, to call for help, but it had half-melted into his jeans; his skin had, somehow, been spared that fate. He thought of yelling for Balthazar, for Gabriel, but there was still a battle raging somewhere and they were in the thick of it, and even if Raphael was down for the count, his soldiers still had to be taken care of.  
  
“Okay,” he said aloud, tucking his jacket more firmly around the angel. “Okay. I’ve got you, Cas.”  
  
Dean shifted the angel’s limbs while Cas murmured fitfully, as though dreaming. He picked up the discarded Crown of Thorns and looped it around his shoulder, stowed Cas’s angel blade—which had clattered to the dirt, also spared the blaze—in his belt, then got his arms beneath Cas’s knees and shoulders, hauling Cas’s body up to rest against his chest. His head dropped to Dean’s shoulder.  
  
“Okay,” he muttered again, squinting at the sun, and took off in the direction of Bobby’s.  
  
He walked steadily but slowly, trying not to jar the limp figure still bleeding in his arms. It was three miles back to Bobby’s, but he didn’t stop. Cas slumped into him while Dean walked on, his shoulders and back aching from the weight after a mile, screaming after two, but he didn’t stop for a second, cradling Cas close to him when the angel muttered senselessly. His mind remained curiously blank, empty except for the rising, jumbled din of panic and hope—Cas alive, but clearly damaged; Cas comatose, Dean incapable of healing him. The bleeding slowed, though, as Dean carried him home; his body stayed warm and his chest continued to rise and fall; he was alive, and that was more than they had expected, more than they had even _hoped_ , and he had been himself before he passed out, he had been _Cas_ …  
  
It was still morning when Dean, limping now, staggered into Singer Salvage Yard. He didn’t have to shout for Bobby; the old hunter was sitting on his front porch. He scrambled to his feet when he saw Dean, and his eyes immediately went down to the limp angel in his arms.  
  
“Is he…”  
  
“He’s alive,” Dean panted, as Bobby hurried to open the door.  
  
“Raphael?”  
  
“Dead,” Dean said, carrying Cas through the door and into the house. Sam looked up from his book and a flicker of surprise crossed his features; Dean, arms aching, let Cas down on the couch. The Crown still bit into his bicep. He ripped it off, ignoring the blood, and cast it onto Bobby’s desk.  
  
“Something’s wrong,” Sam commented as Dean knelt beside Cas.  
  
“Yeah, no shit, something’s wrong,” Dean barked, reaching out to check the angel’s pulse. It was steady, but faint, the beats slow and measured. “Bobby, you got a blanket?”  
  
Bobby was already thrusting an old quilt over his shoulder; Dean took it and covered Cas, removing the jacket. The angel muttered again, his eyes darting beneath closed lids. Dean got to his feet and stared down at Cas, lost, feeling desperately for more than a thread of their shared consciousness, but the connection was still disappointingly faint.  
  
“What’s wrong with his back?” Sam asked, wary, curious, and Dean felt a lump rise in his throat as he turned Cas, just enough to see the enormous, mottled bruise stretching down his shoulder blades, down his spine. Bobby sucked in a breath.  
  
“His wings burned,” Dean said bleakly, letting the angel slump back into the couch.  
  
“You can’t heal him,” Bobby said from his elbow, a statement rather than a question.  
  
“First thing I tried.” His voice sounded rubbed raw.  
  
“We should get him cleaned up.” Bobby’s tone was gentle, careful, and if Dean wasn’t so removed by his panic and grief he would have snapped at him for that.  
  
Instead, he just said, “Yeah, I’ll get some gauze,” and walked to the kitchen to wash his hands of Cas’s blood. “Gabriel and Balthazar?” he called over his shoulder, though he couldn’t actually bring himself to care.  
  
“We don’t know,” Sam answered. “They haven’t come back. Gabriel made some exceptions to the angel-proofing this morning, looks like—they should be able to get in.”  
  
He pulled the first aid supplies from beneath the kitchen sink, wet a cloth and filled a small plastic tub with warm water; he didn’t look at either of them before kneeling back down at Cas’s side.  
  
“They should have it made,” Dean said flatly. “With Raphael dead, those angels are just cattle. Confused cattle, sure, but cattle.” He passed the damp cloth over Cas’s wounds, smudging the blood that had begun to clot, and surreptitiously brushed his fingers over the scar of his hand. Nothing came of it, and he stared hopelessly at the wounds that bled anew in the wake of the cloth. The scratches were deep, cutting through Cas’s forehead, his temples, the scalp beneath his hair; they weren’t bad enough to warrant stitches, but the sight of a lingering wound on the angel still chilled him.  
  
“So it worked,” Bobby said, relief clear in his voice. “The Crown worked.”  
  
“Yeah.” Dean ran gentle fingers through Cas’s hair, made darker by blood, and stared at the still, pale face in front of him. “It worked. Fried Raphael easy.”  
  
As he cleaned and disinfected Cas’s wounds, he told them everything: the unplanned visit to Gethsemane, the brief and one-sided conversation there with something that might have been God, the way Cas had lit up and burned while the Crown killed Raphael.  
  
“So you think God is dead,” Sam said slowly as Dean wrapped gauze around Cas’s head, trying to be gentle, trying not to wake him.  
  
“No,” Dean replied, securing the bandage. “Not dead, but really, really weak. Most of His juice went into that Crown. I think He’s used up what’s left raising Cas, teleporting us to that plane, waking up Gabriel—He doesn’t have the power to do much anymore. He barely has the strength to interfere at all. In Chicago, Death told me…” Dean remembered; it seemed so long ago, now, a whole other Apocalypse. “Death told me he’d reap God someday, too. Guess that might be sooner rather than later.”  
  
At that moment, Gabriel and Balthazar appeared in the middle of the room, hardly looking worse for the wear. “My, how the legions fall when you give ‘em a good push,” Gabriel said cheerfully, glancing around the room. “I’m guessing the Crown was—” He stopped mid-sentence when he caught sight of Cas on the couch, gauze wrapped around his head. Balthazar was already moving forward, standing beside Dean, his features tense.  
  
“He’s alive,” Balthazar said with relief, leaning down to examine the prone figure on the couch.  
  
“If you call that _alive_ ,” Gabriel scoffed, eyeing Cas warily, but he moved forward, too. “The Crown did something to him.” He glanced sideways at Dean. “Gotta hand it to you, Dean-o, that pesky profound bond nonsense really helped you out—”  
  
Dean, already strung tight with anxiety, snapped; he was a step into punching Gabriel in the face, no matter how much it hurt, when Balthazar got between them. “Shut up,” he said over his shoulder to Gabriel, holding Dean at bay with ease. Gabriel smirked at Dean over Balthazar’s shoulder, his eyes dancing; Bobby came forward to yank Dean back, clearing a few feet of space between him and the angels. “He’s alive,” Balthazar repeated, addressing Dean again. “And your soul did keep him that way.”  
  
“What’s wrong with him?” Dean demanded, though it came out too shaky, too raw and open, to be as forceful as he intended. “Why can’t I heal him?”  
  
Balthazar looked back down at Cas, a strange mixture of affection and pity in his features. “He isn’t an angel anymore,” Balthazar said quietly.  
  
“But he’s still—I can still _feel_ him,” he said desperately. “The connection—it’s still—”  
  
“He has some residual Grace,” Balthazar interrupted. “It’s tethered to your soul; that must be what you feel.” He half-turned back to the archangel. “Gabriel?”  
  
“Must be,” Gabriel said, leaning forward to touch Cas’s forehead, and his murmuring suddenly stopped. “It’s what’s left of his Grace, and it’s all tangled up in you, big guy.” He frowned, pressing his fingers a bit harder to Cas’s forehead, and shuddered. “That’s new,” he muttered.  
  
“What?” Dean said, trying to shake off Bobby, but the hunter held fast.  
  
“His Grace is shifting,” Gabriel said in disbelief. “What’s left is regrowing. Into a soul.”  
  
The silence lasted a long, tense instant, and then Balthazar barked a laugh. “He got what he wanted,” he chuckled. “He’s human.”  
  
“He _wanted_ this?” Gabriel snickered, pulling his hand back as though humanity was contagious. “Christ, that kid always did have a screw loose, no one _wants_ to be human—”  
  
“Watch it,” Bobby warned.  
  
“No offense, pops, but you’re all kind of ants when things like us are around,” Gabriel said, turning to Balthazar. “So, the general’s basically dead, what’s the plan?”  
  
Balthazar gave him a look—fierce, dark. “You know the plan,” he said irritably.  
  
“I don’t want to,” Gabriel snapped, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t like Heaven. It’s stuffy.”  
  
“So change it,” the other angel sighed, exasperated. “It’s temporary, Gabriel. You are the only remaining archangel, rip the sticks out of everyone’s asses and throw a party, I don’t care. Just make sure they understand that Earth is one big no-fly zone.”  
  
“What?” Dean interrupted, dumbfounded.  
  
Balthazar turned back to Dean. “It was what Castiel wanted,” he explained. “The last time we spoke, when he’d made up his mind about the Crown, he told me that the angels should leave Earth indefinitely. I’m inclined to agree with him. The last few years were all made so much worse by the angels who’d been stationed here too long. Of course, he’d planned on dying,” he added, exasperated, “so there’s going to have to be an exception. I want to be able to check up on him. Some of the others will, too.”  
  
“I won’t,” Gabriel supplied. “You can take me off the VIP list.”  
  
“Done,” Dean snapped. “Leave.”  
  
“Sure,” Gabriel said brightly. “Looks like I have cats to herd, anyway.”  
  
He vanished; Balthazar rolled his eyes. “I’ll check in,” he said wearily.  
  
“Wait,” Dean said hurriedly. “What do we do? How do I help him?”  
  
For a long moment, Balthazar’s frosted blue eyes appraised him; it was a sharper stare than Dean had ever endured from Balthazar, who usually gave only the most cursory of glances, and it daunted him to be reminded of the power the angel still had.  
  
“He’ll recover,” he said finally, surprisingly gentle. “He’s already healing. Let him rest, and he should be fine.” He spared a glance at Cas, sleeping peacefully now. “You’ll have to help him adjust,” he said. “He wanted this, more than anything, but it won’t be easy for him. Be patient.”  
  
“Sure,” Dean said, his mouth dry, “sure, I can do that,” and when Balthazar shot him a skeptical look, he ignored it. “What happens now?” he asked. “With the angels, and…everything.”  
  
“Now,” Balthazar said, smirking, “we leave you bloody well alone.”  
  
He vanished, leaving the house silent in his wake.


	10. Black and Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How long have I been asleep? I think I dreamed. It was disconcerting.”

When Castiel finally woke, it was dark, and everything hurt.  
  
His chest was tight; his natural instinct was to gasp, and oxygen, soothing in a way it had never been before, flooded his lungs. His head throbbed with pain so strong that he heard himself whimper. He pressed his eyes tightly shut, trying to ignore the ache in his knee, along his arm, bruising his ribs. He remembered the fire, the liquid heat pouring through him as Raphael was seared to a pulp, Dean’s face hovering over him in the aftermath—  
  
 _Dean_. He felt desperately for their connection and found it, a bare thread compared to what it had been before, but the low hum of Dean’s consciousness still reached him. He was nearby.  
  
No sooner had he realized that than someone shifted nearby. “Cas,” a quiet voice murmured; a hand reached out to tentatively touch him, thumb stroking gently over his cheekbone. “You awake?”  
  
He took a deep breath—the pain intensified momentarily before fading back to a sharp consistency—and tilted his head back to look up, squinting. Green eyes gazed back at him, hopeful and anxious.  
  
“Dean,” he croaked.  
  
A smile broke across the hunter’s face. He was hunched over, his forearms on the mattress, perched on the chair pulled up to the bed—they were in the panic room, Castiel realized—and the shadows beneath his eyes were bruised and puffy. “Yeah,” he said, and he looked exhausted but so _happy_ , and Castiel felt it, too, the flood of utter, bone-deep relief reaching him through the bond. “It’s me. I’m gonna get you some Tylenol, okay? You’re probably in pain.”  
  
Castiel nodded, even that stiff motion adding to the pain in his head, and Dean sat back. Castiel missed the warmth of his hand the moment it was gone from his cheek. He watched, eyes half-open, as Dean poured a few tablets from a bottle into his hand.  
  
“Can you sit up?” Dean asked, picking up a glass of water.  
  
Castiel shifted enough to prop himself up sideways on one elbow, but could get no further; his body trembled from just that exertion.  
  
“Good enough,” Dean said.  
  
Castiel was already mindlessly reaching to take the medicine from Dean when the idiocy of it struck him. “You can just heal me,” he said, his voice grating in his throat—it had never felt so raw before.  
  
Dean shook his head, a flash of regret sparking in his eyes. “Can’t,” he said gruffly. “It stopped working.”  
  
Castiel felt frantically for the bond again, but it was still there, Dean’s reassuring consciousness a low, distant hum; balancing precariously, he turned over his arm and found the old handprint, still scarred into the flesh of his forearm.  
  
“But we’re still…” Castiel trailed off, uncertain, confused, and Dean came to his rescue.  
  
“Yeah, we are. Come on, you need to take this. Drink some water.”  
  
Castiel obeyed, heaving himself back up and reaching, trembling, for the pills; Dean held the glass to his lips and let him drink, and his throat was suddenly soothed. Every gulp tasted like Heaven, bright and liquid. When the glass was empty, Dean set it back on the nightstand.  
  
“Okay,” Dean said, his voice still a low murmur of reassurance. “Good.” He pulled his chair a little closer to the bed and gently pushed Castiel back down to the pillows; Castiel couldn’t have fought if he wanted to, so he curled up on the side that didn’t hurt, the side facing Dean. “It should start helping soon, okay?” Dean closed his hand over Castiel’s and for a moment they looked at one another, silent.  
  
“What’s wrong with me?” he asked finally, his tongue thick in his mouth.  
  
“Nothing,” Dean said sharply, brows knitting together. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re okay, just a little beat up, is all.”  
  
“Raphael,” Castiel said, as flashes of those last moments came back to him. “He’s dead.”  
  
“Yeah.” Dean chuckled. The sound was worn, but genuine. “You got him good.”  
  
“Gabriel? Balthazar?”  
  
“Only a few casualties,” Dean said. “The angels have gone back to Heaven; Gabriel’s keeping them there. Balthazar—and anyone you want to see,” he added quickly, too quickly, “they can still come to Earth.”  
  
He had begun to piece it together: Dean’s careful handling of him, the aches and pains he’d never quite experienced before, his sheer exhaustion. It felt like it had after that banishing sigil, box cutter carving in his chest, waking up in a hospital, but he felt the loss a little more acutely now, missed his wings now that he could remember Dean touching them, and the place where they had been was a mess of pain, long and liquid down his back.  
  
“Because I can’t go to Heaven,” he said slowly. “I’m human.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said, his eyes unaccountably bright. “Seems that way. Your wings...” And his voice choked, and he stopped, couldn’t go on.  
  
“They burned,” Castiel acknowledged, calmer than he felt, and Dean gripped too hard into the old scar on his forearm; it hurt in a way it never had before.  
  
“I tried to regrow them,” he said, too fast, his voice shaking. “I thought—the connection’s still there, and you said my soul made them new after Hell—but I don’t think I can, Cas, I’m sorry—”  
  
“Dean.” Castiel squeezed back, and Dean’s grip on his arm relaxed. “It’s alright.”  
  
Dean exhaled, hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer. “I guess the Crown used up almost all of your Grace, and all that was left was what was tied to me. That’s what the angels think, anyway. And whatever was left…well, there’s still some, but it’s different, now.”  
  
“Different?” Castiel couldn’t tell, couldn’t feel a thing that was going on inside him; it was all dark and mysterious and silent. “Different how?”  
  
“You’ve got a soul. It’s like it grew out of what was left of your Grace.” He looked down at the mattress, and when he spoke next, it was in measured, controlled syllables, but Castiel could feel the grief and guilt beneath them. “Cas…I know you wanted to be human, but not like—not like _this_ —you didn’t even get to choose—and I couldn’t stop it—”  
  
“Dean,” Castiel interrupted. “You saved my life.” With a little struggle, he propped himself up on his elbow again. “When can we start hunting?”  
  
Dean laughed; the sound was curiously wet. “Not for a while,” he said, and when Castiel opened his mouth to argue, he warned, “I’m serious, Cas. You need time to recover. You need time to get used to just—to just _being_ human. You’re not ready for hunting. Can’t smite stuff anymore, remember?”  
  
To Castiel, it was a blessing rather than a curse. The memory of being a soldier, a warrior of Heaven, felt too big for his head, now; he tried not to examine it too closely, tried not to think more than peripherally of the past, when he’d had the power to create and destroy.

He glanced down at the shirt he was wearing; it was black and worn, and he recognized it as Dean’s. “My trench coat burned,” he realized mournfully.  
  
“Yeah. Gotta say, it’ll be weird seeing you without that thing. We’ll have to get you some new clothes. Something besides that holy tax accountant look.” Dean smiled. “Balthazar owes me some serious cash if I successfully get you in flannel.”  
  
“Is it warm?” Castiel asked, because he was shivering; this was what cold actually felt like, he realized, and it was far more uncomfortable than he could have imagined.  
  
“Are you cold?” Dean said, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. When Castiel nodded, he pushed the chair back. “Scoot over,” he instructed, and slid beneath the blanket and sheets as Castiel made room for him. Castiel curled up against Dean’s side immediately, gravitating toward the warmth, and he felt Dean’s distant fondness and amusement as the hunter’s arms closed around him, holding him close.  
  
“How long have I been asleep?” Castiel asked, frowning. “I think I dreamed. It was disconcerting.”  
  
“Three days. You did, a little, I think. You talked in your sleep sometimes.”  
  
“About _what_?” Castiel said, affronted, but Dean squeezed his shoulders gently, and he relaxed again.  
  
“Nothing. Gibberish, mostly.”  
  
The memories touched Castiel with none of the clarity of before, but he picked apart the flashes: his own face, dim and hazy and pale on the bed, Dean’s tension as the hunter watched over him, jerked awake from too-little sleep, watching his lips mumble into the pillow.  
  
“Have you slept at all?” Castiel asked, faintly accusatory.  
  
“Not really,” Dean admitted. Castiel tilted his chin up to glare at him. “Couldn’t.”  
  
Because Dean remembered watching him burn, and the shadowy imprint of his wings turned to glittering ash.  
  
“Are they still there?” Castiel asked, because he wanted to see, if he could, wanted to at least stand in the remains of what he’d once been and utter a goodbye.  
  
“Don’t know,” Dean muttered. “I haven’t gone back.”  
  
And Castiel heard the truth behind that, smelled it in the days-old sweat soaked into Dean’s shirt, felt it in the flashes of memory that told him Dean hadn’t set a foot outside the panic room since he’d brought Castiel down here.  
  
“We can look,” Dean said, “if you want.”  
  
Castiel nodded, closed his eyes. The world was dimming again; he sensed he’d been asleep for a few days, but he was still tired, and something black with claws was dragging him down, washing him out.  
  
“Aspirin helping?” Dean asked, so quiet that Castiel barely heard him.  
  
“I think so,” he replied, because the pain had dulled. He draped his bruised arm over Dean’s stomach and closed his eyes, comfortable, the pain a little more bearable.  
  
“Good,” Dean said. “Nothing’s broken, you’re just a little bruised from falling, and your head got cut up pretty bad by that Crown, so you should be okay in a few more days.” He paused, went on more flatly, “I don’t know about...your back’s all bruised. I can’t tell if it’s getting better.”  
  
“It’s not so bad,” Castiel muttered, feeling the pull of where bones and ligaments had once connected, and between his memory and Dean’s, the term _phantom limb_ had a whole new meaning: it was as though they were still there, shadows draping over him. “I barely feel it.”  
  
“Liar,” Dean teased; Castiel felt his lips moving against his hair. “And bad at it.”  
  
“You’ll teach me,” Castiel said, closing his eyes; he felt like he was falling again, the world becoming dimmer as he slipped away.  
  
“Nah,” Dean murmured; Castiel felt his muscles loosening, the thread in his mind drifting, as Dean, exhausted, collapsed toward sleep. “Some things shouldn’t change.”  
  
  
  
When Castiel woke the second time, it was because his stomach was growling. The sensation was incredibly uncomfortable, like a hollow had been carved out of his midsection. He tilted his head up to meet Dean’s amused gaze. “Hungry?” Dean asked.  
  
“Is that was this is?” he muttered, and evidently his displeasure was humorous, because Dean laughed. The shadows under his eyes were less pronounced.  
  
“Sure is. You’ve been human for four days and you haven’t eaten anything. Come on.” Dean swung his legs out of bed, sitting up. “Let’s find out what you like besides cheeseburgers.”  
  
Castiel’s stomach made noise again. He sat up too, finding it easier this time than the last. Dean, already standing, offered a hand to help him up, and he took it gratefully. “Feel okay?” Dean asked as Castiel stood, the bruises and aches pulling faintly in his moving muscles and joints. Even the tenderness in his back felt dimmer, as though he was healing.  
  
“Just…hungry.”  
  
“Pancakes,” Dean said decisively. “Bacon. Eggs. I’ll cook, you’ll sit, it’ll be great.” He smiled and squeezed Castiel’s hand, pulling him gently forward. “Think you handle the stairs?” he asked.  
  
Castiel nodded, still half-asleep, and swayed, unbalanced by the fuzziness in his head; Dean caught and steadied him as he stumbled. “Easy,” he murmured. When Castiel looked up, Dean was close, barely an inch away, and warmth spiked through him, adoration and longing laced together.  
  
Before he could say something about the tightness in his chest, Dean was kissing him, his lips warm and inviting, his hand cupped gently around Castiel’s cheek, his free arm wrapped tight around Castiel’s waist, and the ache eased with the contact, hummed down to a dull contentment. It was only when he suddenly felt light-headed that he pulled back, gasping, and Dean smirked at him.  
  
“You’re going to have to get used to that breathing thing,” the hunter said, rough and affectionate.  
  
“Right,” Castiel said, and his lips curved up without him telling them to.  
  
“C’mon,” Dean said, tugging him to the stairs. “Food.”  
  
Dean gave him an orange and showed him how to peel it before sitting him at the kitchen table and bustling around to open cabinets. It was still very early in the morning; Sam wasn’t yet in the den, and Castiel thought he heard Bobby’s snores from upstairs. His nails struggled to bite into the peel, but when he finally managed to evict a section of the fruit and put it in his mouth, the resulting sensation was worth it.  
  
“Don’t forget to chew,” Dean said, watching Castiel from where he was whisking together pancake batter.  
  
Being taken care of by Dean was a strange feeling. He’d never thought that Dean would be _bad_ at caring for someone else, necessarily—he’d single-handedly raised Sam, more or less, when he was a child himself—but he’d never thought Dean would be so careful and considerate, either. It made him feel warm, safe. He worked open the rest of the peel and ate the fruit slowly, enjoying the taste every time he bit into a new slice.  
  
“He’s alive,” a voice said behind him, obviously teasing, as Bobby came into the kitchen. He clapped Castiel on the shoulder as he passed. “Jesus, Dean, what are you making?”  
  
“Pancakes,” Dean said over his shoulder, now pouring batter into a hot skillet. “Eggs. Bacon. First meal as a human being, isn’t that what you’d want?”  
  
Bobby looked back at Castiel, who was now piling together the shreds of orange peel a little regretfully. “I see you’ve introduced him to oranges,” Bobby observed, reaching for the coffee pot.  
  
“It was good,” Castiel announced. “Though its name leaves much to be desired in the way of creativity.”  
  
Dean snorted. Bobby rolled his eyes. “Here,” the older hunter said, digging around above the refrigerator and coming up with a banana. “Try this.”  
  
While Dean watched the stove with a paranoid stare—Castiel thought it had probably been some time since he’d cooked anything so elaborate himself—Bobby showed him how to peel a banana. It was easier than the orange, but he made a face the instant he took a bite, unable to hide his grimace.  
  
“Bananas are a no-go,” Bobby commented, amused. He took the fruit back and ate it himself, handing Castiel another orange. He set to peeling eagerly.  
  
When the pancakes were ready and Bobby slid a cup of coffee across to him, though, Dean pulled it back. At Bobby’s raised eyebrow, he muttered, “We should wait on the caffeine a few days.” He took the coffee for himself.  
  
“Mama bear,” Bobby griped under his breath.  
  
“Hey,” Dean said, pointing the spatula at him in warning. “Do you want to be responsible for a former angel getting addicted to caffeine? No? Neither do I.” He set down a plate of pancakes in front of Castiel, a smaller plate to the side with eggs and bacon. The eggs looked like eyes; the bacon curved up like a smile.  
  
The muscles in Castiel’s face hurt with how hard he grinned then, quick and effortless, a flash that overcame his features before he knew it was happening.  
  
Dean and Bobby ate and watched, amused, as Castiel ploughed his way through six pancakes drizzled with maple syrup, interspersing this with bites of bacon. He ate the eggs last, and liked them least, but didn’t feel the revulsion for them that he’d felt for the banana, so he finished them off.  
  
“These make me very happy,” Castiel announced, reaching for another pancake. Dean grinned.  
  
“A man after my own heart.” Dean seemed to suddenly realize that they weren’t alone, because he glanced at Bobby and shut up, burying his face in his coffee.  
  
Bobby was giving Dean a lingering, peculiar look.  
  
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Bobby said finally, and Castiel recognized the look on his face at last: fondness and irritation all tangled up together. “You’re not _subtle_ , Dean. Stop foolin’ yourself.”  
  
Dean spluttered. “Excuse me?”  
  
“You. Cas.” Bobby stabbed at a pancake and then waved the fork between them. “Together.”  
  
Dean looked at Castiel across the table. Castiel just shrugged back. The gesture felt more natural than it ever had. “Yeah,” Dean said slowly.  
  
“Yeah? Good. About damn time.” Bobby went on eating, seemingly done with the conversation.  
  
“That’s it,” Dean said slowly, watching Bobby warily.  
  
“What else would there be, boy?” Bobby groused, but it was affectionate, and Dean looked back to his own food, clearly baffled, but happy.  
  
Castiel was finally full sometime around his eighth pancake, and he hounded Dean until the hunter taught him how to wash dishes. They stood, shoulders brushing, Dean drying the dishes when Castiel was through carefully cleaning them, and even though he’d lost everything he’d ever known, he felt whole. He felt happy.  
  
“Okay,” Dean said finally, when the last cup was put away, “might be time for you to get cleaned up a little. If you’re not feeling inclined toward another coma.”  
  
Sam snickered from the den; when he’d come into the room, Castiel wasn’t sure. He didn’t have the same awareness he’d always had, and it was both uncomfortable and a relief. “He’s never slept in about a billion years,” Sam pointed out over his cup of coffee. “Pretty sure he could sleep for the next sixty.”  
  
“No, I don’t feel...tired,” Castiel said. His tongue felt strange on the syllables. “Just weak.”  
  
“Told you. You guys don’t walk enough. Gonna get flabby.” Dean’s hand lifted, brushed gently over the stubble on Castiel’s jaw, though it was less stubble and more beard, now. There was a vague flash of memory and he saw himself, 2014, the future that Zachariah had once shown Dean, where Castiel’s eyes looked back at him vacantly and a beard had long since taken permanent residence on his features.  
  
“Come on,” Dean said, leading the way out of the kitchen and up the stairs. “Important human skills include knowing how to shave.”  
  
His vessel had never once aged, not since he inhabited the body, but this was evidence that it—that _he_ —was growing. Changing. He scrubbed a hand over his own beard as Dean filled the sink with warm water and pulled out a new razor. Not his vessel, he reminded himself, because it was a thought that bore getting used to. Even after Jimmy had gone, the body had still felt like something to be animated rather than inhabited; even when he had been human, briefly, before, it had felt heavy and foreign, clothes rather than skin, but that was different, now. He felt pressed into it, anchored, and it was less heavy than solid, more familiar than alien.  
  
“Here.” Dean’s hands gently curled around his hips and pushed him to lean against the countertop, and Castiel let it take part of his weight gratefully. “You’re getting real philosophical in there today.”  
  
“It’s a situation that warrants some thought.” He watched Dean squeeze shaving cream onto his fingers and then rub it into a foam, knowing that the hunter was trusting him to be paying attention. Dean smeared the foam over his beard.  
  
“Try not to accidentally eat any of it,” Dean warned, dipping the razor into the sink.  
  
Castiel stayed quiet, his lips pressed tightly together, while Dean cut swaths through the growth on his jaw and cheeks, carefully carved through the space above his lip. Dean’s face was vigilant with concentration, but not tense, and Castiel had the sense that he had done this before, for Sam, when they were younger, and that it was somehow soothing to him. He’d no sooner thought that than the memory seeped into him, Sam leaned back into a sink like he was, already taller than Dean, a gangly teenager, and Dean’s face, less lined, less careworn. They periodically broke into smiles, Sam’s reluctant as Dean teased him mercilessly. It was a motel, cracked and old, but the memory still felt like home.  
  
“Dad was never gonna teach him. Wasn’t around enough.” Dean dipped the razor into the sink and put it back to his skin. “Didn’t care about this stuff when he was.”  
  
Castiel kept quiet, just feeling the residue of it, that feeling, and wondered if Dean had lost it when Sam left to go to Stanford.  
  
Dean didn’t say anything to that, just turned Castiel toward the sink and drained it, then ran new, warm water and let him wash the residual shaving cream off his face. When he was done toweling dry, Dean smiled, just slightly, the crinkles around his eyes deepening.  
  
“Better.” He cleared his throat and reached into the shower, turning the water on. “You could use a shower, too, now that your face is more or less healed.” As the water ran, Dean touched his forehead, where one of the gouges from the Crown of Thorns had scabbed over. “Did what I could while you were asleep, but it’s not going to compare.”  
  
Castiel reached up and circled Dean’s wrist with his fingers. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.  
  
Dean nodded in acceptance and said, “Want me to leave you to it?”  
  
Castiel heard the unasked question. “Stay,” he requested. “I’m still feeling weak.”  
  
Dean stripped out of his clothes with practiced ease, leaving them in a pile on the ground before ducking behind the shower curtain. Castiel followed, a little clumsy, trying to mimic Dean’s movements, appreciating that Dean didn’t think he needed help. He stepped carefully over the side of the tub and Dean shuffled so that the spray of water hit him directly in the chest.  
  
He felt his mouth pop open. “Oh,” he said weakly; the warmth running over his skin was unexpectedly pleasurable, and he’d thought that _wet_ was one of those feelings he’d hate if he ever got to be human, but he’d been wrong. Dean smiled, reached out, and pulled him closer, so that the water seeped into his hair and ran in rivulets down his face.  
  
“Showers are a hit,” Dean said, and his eyes were soft. “That’s good.”  
  
Dean massaged shampoo into his hair and scalp, careful not to get soap in Castiel’s eyes. “It hurts,” he explained, eyes fixed just above Castiel’s head. “You’ll do it on accident eventually. It stings, but it’s not the end of the world.”  
  
“Sometimes things will hurt and there’s no real reason,” Castiel said, half a question, tilting his head forward when Dean tugged. He squeezed his eyes shut while the shampoo rinsed out.  
  
When it was safe to open them again, he looked at Dean for confirmation, blinking water out of his eyelashes, and Dean nodded. “Sometimes,” he agreed. “Sometimes you sleep wrong and your neck hurts, but it goes away. Sometimes you do something on a hunt and some part of you just hurts forever after that, and it’s not an injury, not really, it’s just…” Dean lifted his shoulders in a shrug, reaching for the bar of soap. “It’s just life.” He smiled suddenly. “Before you, man, I’d had this weird fucking twinge in my knee for years. Ever since this spirit threw me into a brick wall when I was twenty-four. And when I crawled out of my grave, it was gone. Weirdest feeling.”  
  
He balanced with a hand on Dean’s shoulder when Dean cleaned the bottom of his feet. Dean was careful, thorough; Castiel felt stripped, shiny and new, as the residue of soap rinsed from his skin. Dean was much swifter and less attentive to his own washing, scrubbing a hand roughly through his hair, frothing the soap quickly over his skin, but for a moment, Castiel saw him succumb to the water pressure, as the warm spray caught him in the face and he closed his eyes. The crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes loosened, the deepening lines in his forehead slackening, and for a few seconds, he wasn’t as tense as usual.  
  
Dean had aged—undeniably, and swiftly—since they’d first met. His stubble seemed rougher, his wrinkles deeper, the shadows beneath his eyes darker. Not for the first time, Castiel worried about his health, wondered if something worse than psychological torment was festering, deep down, but Dean reached out, his eyes still closed, and pulled Castiel back into the spray of water.  
  
“It is really, really overbearing when you’re worrying about how old _I_ am,” Dean informed him, shaking his head and sending water flying from his hair. He blinked his eyes open and smirked down at Castiel. “When _you_ are ancient. Not even an exaggeration.”  
  
“Until recently, I was also immortal,” Castiel said, straight-faced. “The age was inconsequential. You, however, have been mortal your entire life, and you’re tired, Dean.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said, the smirk fading. “Guess I can’t argue with that. Should take a vacation some time.” He reached behind him, shut the water off, and pulled a towel down from where the shower curtain hung. Castiel let him rub his hair to absorb most of the moisture, then took the towel when Dean offered it to him and wrapped it around himself.  
  
“That’s not a bad idea,” Castiel said offhandedly, trying not to sound too serious, but Dean paused in the act of running his towel over his own hair and gave him a suspicious look.  
  
“I meant it when I said you were a bad liar,” he said flatly. “We don’t take vacations.”  
  
“You’ve been running yourself ragged for years,” Castiel replied, firmly now, as Dean pulled back the shower curtain and stepped out of the tub. “A few weeks off, the world wouldn’t end. Not now, anyway.”  
  
“We’ve got a few souls to worry about.”  
  
He would need to talk to Balthazar about that, maybe to Gabriel; perhaps the archangel had ideas, theories, to free Sam’s soul from Hell. There had been no time, while they were facing Raphael, for him to ask, but time stretched before him the way it never had before. Once, he’d had forever to live, and now that he had only decades they felt longer, somehow, unraveled out to a murky and distant future that felt truly far.  
  
“Of course,” Castiel said. “But after.”  
  
Dean considered him, his eyes cautious, but curious. “Yeah,” he allowed. “Maybe we could use it. Don’t know what we’d do, exactly, but—”  
  
“I don’t know, either,” Castiel admitted. “I am inexperienced with the concept of vacations.”  
  
Dean grinned at that, and held out a hand to help him step out of the shower. Some of Dean’s clothes were already waiting for him, folded on the countertop, and Castiel felt a flash of genuine warmth, the knowledge that he was cared for deep in his bones. He’d never quite felt that before.  
  
  
  
Balthazar appeared when he called for him almost instantaneously, and Castiel had the feeling that the angel had been listening, waiting for him to wake up. He came forward with a genuine smile on his features and embraced Castiel, briefly but warmly.  
  
“You look better,” Balthazar commented.  
  
Castiel nodded, pushing himself up to sit on the hood of the Impala while Balthazar leaned beside him. “I slept a long time.”  
  
“How does it feel?”  
  
Castiel paused, considering. “Strange,” he said at last. “Painful. But good. This is what I wanted.” He shifted. “I am glad that the battle did not go poorly for you. Raphael...worried me.”  
  
Balthazar snorted. “It was easy as cake. I think everyone’s forgotten, you know, how profoundly _irritating_ Gabriel can be when he’s in a snit.”  
  
Castiel smiled. “And Heaven?”  
  
Balthazar let out a heavy sigh. “Everyone’s happy to stay off Earth, for the most part,” he said wearily. “But they don’t know what to do, Cassie. We were made to obey. Sure, we’ve got a few odd ducks—you and me, Gabriel…Anna was like that, too. The rest of them, they just aren’t there yet. Some are contemplating Falling, especially those who have been on Earth a long time, but they’re very much the minority.”  
  
“Give them time,” Castiel said, trying to be reassuring. “Gabriel will not stay forever, and when he’s removed, the structure of command will collapse. I can only hope that will help.”  
  
Balthazar nodded, braced his hands against the Impala’s hood. “What’s next?” he asked, and Castiel knew he meant _for you_.  
  
“Crowley,” he began, and Balthazar made a noise of disgust, “still has Bobby’s soul hostage, and Sam is still trapped with Lucifer. We have...enough to occupy ourselves.”  
  
“Sam is a lost cause, Cassie,” Balthazar said, his voice pitying.  
  
“I refuse to believe that.”  
  
“Look,” the angel said, trying to be gentle, but it came out sharp, “he’s been in that box for—what—a few months now? Which is a few _decades_ , down there. A few decades with Michael and Lucifer taking out all their frustrations on him—and Adam, I suppose,” he added, an afterthought. “But Sam, he’s their real target, he’s the one who fucked everything up for them. You saw Dean’s soul after a few decades in Hell, but that’s nothing compared to bunking with Lucifer.”  
  
“So we should just leave him there?” Castiel demanded, a flash of anger running through him. “I did this, Balthazar. I failed to free him completely, and Dean is suffering. _Sam_ is suffering.”  
  
“It’s nothing compared to what will happen if you manage to put his soul back in him,” Balthazar said matter-of-factly. “It could kill him, Castiel, if it doesn’t do something worse. Dean had post-traumatic stress disorder. Sam wouldn’t have a mind _left_ to create a mental illness.”  
  
Castiel knew this was the truth—he did—but he had to take the chance, had to find a way to free Dean’s brother, because he was Dean’s guardian and Dean _needed_ his brother, but he wasn’t just that. He wasn’t an angel anymore, but he felt a certain responsibility for Sam, something that had grown out of underestimating the youngest Winchester, the one who had always been more taken with the idea of angels than Dean had, and Sam had saved the world, after all. Didn’t he deserve to live, to be healed, to be reunited with his family?  
  
Balthazar watched him, pity turned to sympathy. “Cassie,” he said, softer now, “if you did manage to get him out, if—if something pulled him free—he’d have a chance, maybe. Not a good one. You know that. It’s more likely that he’d die all over again.”  
  
“It would be better that way,” Castiel said flatly, standing up. “Even if he did die, he would go to Heaven. He would be at peace. Sam Winchester does not deserve an eternity of suffering.”  
  
Balthazar considered him, studying his features, and finally gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll see what I can find out,” he said wearily.  
  
“Thank you, Balthazar,” Castiel said, genuinely grateful.  
  
Balthazar grimaced. “Give my regards to the ants.” Before Castiel could chastise him, Balthazar vanished.  
  
“Oh,” he said aloud in the silence that followed. “I understand why that’s annoying now.”  
  
He glanced up, an errant look, and saw movement at the back door, a quiet set of footsteps vanishing back into Bobby’s, an unease gripped at him, an instinct that felt both old and young. He hoped, though didn’t believe, that Sam—or what was left of him—hadn’t been eavesdropping.


	11. Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I killed your best girl, you sure don’t owe me any favors, but we’ve got something in common.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnotes for warnings about this chapter.

Dean didn’t sleep much—or even close his eyes much—the first few days that Cas was human. He was paralyzed by the fear that he would miss some wonderful and hilarious first—the first time Cas got hiccups, and they went on for a miserable twenty minutes, or the first time he accidentally cut his finger on a knife he was washing and swore, a steady stream of _fucks_ and _sonofabitches_ interspersed with Enochian curses that made Dean grin proudly—or, even worse, that he would miss something life-threatening: an allergy to a food they weren’t aware of, a medical condition that might have followed Jimmy Novak’s body into Cas’s second life. He laid awake at night in the panic room, listening to Cas snore—quietly—until he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open, waiting to hear the gurgle of something caught in his throat, waiting to hear his heart miss or fall out of rhythm. Cas said that Jimmy Novak had been perfectly healthy, that any damage done to his vessel was long after he’d taken control, and those wounds had healed before he became human.  
  
But Dean worried, and worried, and worried. He wasn’t used to being physically stronger than Cas, had a hard time adjusting to Cas’s new vulnerabilities, and worried that any passing flu or demon could do him permanent injury. It was one thing to face down an imminent threat, the thing that any day could take Cas away from him—Cas, his salvation, his last Greatest Hit—but it was another to face down the pervasive, forever threat of everyday life, the one with a thousand small barbs that could all be full of poison, and it was impossible to know them all.  
  
“Dean,” Cas yawned, shifting around on the small mattress beside him. He did that now, yawned. It had confused him the first time it happened, surprise blossoming on his features just beneath the exhuastion. “Why are you still awake?”  
  
Dean kept quiet for another few seconds, but he knew it was ultimately a futile gesture. “How can you tell?”  
  
“I can still hear you,” Cas mumbled into his neck, his words slurred with sleep and skin. “You’re loud. Stop worrying. I’m not dying.”  
  
But that wasn’t true. They were all dying, and the next few decades stretched out scattered with land mines, all waiting to be stepped on. The rest of his life had never felt so short before, even when he’d been on the fast track to Hell.  
  
Cas propped himself up on his elbow, squinting at Dean through the dim light of the panic room. “Dean,” he said, very seriously, “I’m thirty-three.”  
  
“No, Cas, you’re about a billion,” Dean groaned. “Or older, I don’t know.”  
  
“Biologically,” Cas said, undeterred, “I’m two years older than you. Two. I’m not _dying_.”  
  
“We’re all dying,” Dean grumbled.  
  
Cas leaned over and kissed him, roughly, heatedly; he couldn’t help but respond enthusiastically, giving a muffled groan into Cas’s mouth as the other man pressed against him. “Do I _seem_ ,” Cas hissed against his lips, “like a man who’s dying?” He dragged a hand down Dean’s chest and his mouth went dry, his body responding in a way it seemed programmed to. They’d had nothing more than passing kisses, casual brushes, since Cas had become human—Dean loathe to rush him, Dean terrified to pressure him—and his utter need for Cas like this woke up with a jolt of desire straight to his groin.  
  
And then Cas’s _hand_ was there, pressing against him through his boxers, applying pressure just right, and he had to breathe hard to keep from moaning again. “Whoa,” he said, reaching up to tangle his fingers in Cas’s hair. “Slow down.”  
  
“Slow _down_?” Cas said mutinously, and he was still an angel in there somewhere because when he talked in that tone—all thunder and sandpaper and gravel, like his vocal cords had a hard time parsing his essence—he could still put the fear of God in Dean’s heart, reluctant, sure, but present. “You haven’t touched me since I became human, and you expect me to slow _down_? Dean,” and he was breathing with desperation now, speaking with words rolled together like a flood, “I wanted you while I was an angel, but being human is different, and I’m impatient, and I _want_ —”  
  
Dean cut him off with a kiss, fierce in its intensity, and Cas responded with enthusiasm, shifting until Dean had a lapful of former angel, Cas straddling his hips and digging fingers into Dean’s shoulders so hard that it might bruise. With Cas writhing on top of him it was easy to lose control, to let go, to claw his shirt off over his head in a way that rumpled that already-messy dark hair, to cling to the scar on his forearm in a way that made Cas _moan_ so darkly that Dean nearly blacked out from sheer bliss at just the sound of it.  
  
“Didn’t want to hurt you,” Dean mumbled, as he obeyed Cas’s frantic pulling and sat up, allowing his shirt to be yanked off. “Didn’t want to rush you—”  
  
Cas’s blue eyes were so vivid, so luminous, sparkling with fury and desire all at once, as he leaned in and snarled, “I’m not a _child_ , Dean,” and then went on kissing him, his hands running roughly through Dean’s hair. Dean’s hands came up and touched, ran fingers over Cas’s ribs, over his chest, dragged down his back, and Cas whimpered into his mouth, his tongue rushing forward to meet Dean’s.  
  
They were grinding against one another now, muffled groans from Cas and soft curses from Dean. Cas had the presence of mind to push him down, trembling, and slip his fingers around the elastic of Dean’s boxers, pulling them down and off, and Dean wrapped an arm around the angel—because he always would be an angel, to Dean, would always be _his_ angel in a way he felt rather than thought about—and rolled Cas beneath him. He rolled his hips down and felt the heat, the warmth of Cas rigid against him, and Cas groaned, pressing up to meet him. Dean pulled his boxers down and off and it was that much better, sliding together and Cas’s muted little noises beneath him.  
  
It had never really been like this, before—sex had never felt this overblown, this all-consuming, dozens of one-night stands just bleeding together in his memories with the vague hint of pleasure compared to this, compared to Cas beneath him gasping his name, because all those girls couldn’t stand up to this, to blue eyes reduced to a thin rim and a voice like thunder wrecked in bliss and the hundreds of glances and touches that had led to this, led him to hold onto Cas like he’d never dared hold onto anything before. He hadn’t even known he could want something the way he wanted Cas, and God help him, he didn’t just want Cas like this, spread open beneath him, he wanted Cas with him in the Impala on every hunting trip, he wanted Cas wearing his old t-shirts and boots, he wanted Cas eating pancakes and Cas scrubbing a hand over second-day stubble and Cas muttering under his breath in Enochian all the curses in his impressive vocabulary—and to want those things, _all_ those things, to really want them, that was new, that was different than anything he’d felt and it threatened to swallow him whole the way Famine’s disease hadn’t managed to, because maybe he hadn’t known it then, but he knew it now: Cas fulfilled a need he hadn’t even known he had, and he wanted that slot occupied.  
  
He searched around under the bed for the lube that was still down there somewhere, let Cas’s knees fall open around him, trailed fingers down to the rim of muscle and slicked against it. Cas shuddered, and Dean watched his eyes close, trailed his free hand over the ribs that arched up following his spine, and pressed in, and Cas gave beneath him, whimpering now. But his hand lifted, shaky, curled around Dean’s hip and pulled him closer, and his fingers closed loosely around Dean and stroked languidly up; he had to breathe, hard, had to concentrate to crook his finger in just the right place and Cas’s hand tightened around him in reaction.  
  
He added a second finger, going slow, and Cas moaned his name, low and dark and aching, and then he was panting, “I’m ready, Dean, I’m ready.” Dean’s hand freed itself, went between them and slid beneath Cas’s fingers, slicking himself up, and Cas’s eyes had opened again, dark and wanting, watching their hands and Dean’s cock with fascination and anticipation. He slid deeper, between Cas’s legs, came forward leaning on his elbows—their bodies just touching, a whisper of skin-on-skin—and pushed in, slow, while Cas panted and squirmed, his own dick hard against Dean’s stomach. With every stray touch as Dean slid home, the angel beneath him whimpered, his mouth slackening, so gone already, lost in it.  
  
“Move,” Cas demanded, when Dean paused too long buried in him, “ _move_ ,” so Dean drew back and pushed forward, and Cas’s grip on his shoulder and hip was so tight that it was painful, but so _good_ , because he could feel the faint, distant spark and catch of pleasure that Cas was adrift in, relishing, so overwhelming that he was barely tethered to what he was doing. Dean leaned down and brushed Cas’s already-bruised lips with his, languid and warm, and Cas pushed back, his tongue licking into Dean’s mouth.  
  
He knew, could feel it when Cas was close by the way his mouth slackened against Dean’s, by the way he arched up against Dean’s thrusts. Dean leaned on one elbow and brought his hand between them, stroking Cas’s cock in time with every deep roll of his hips; Cas stared up at him, unblinking, moaning continuously now, and then his head tipped back, whole body stiffening, and he was spilling all over Dean’s hand as Dean’s name fell in a hoarse groan from his lips. It took only a few last, hard thrusts, and Dean let go, too, his voice choking as he buried himself deep in Cas.  
  
Dean pressed his face into Cas’s neck, breathing hard, and Cas’s death grip on his shoulder finally relaxed. They were a mess, so Dean balanced again and groped for a towel, a shirt, anything—Cas gave a little whimper as their skin brushed together—and came up with enough fabric to wipe away the worst of it. And then they were still, Dean sprawled half over Cas on his stomach, one leg hooked around the angel’s and his face smooshed into the pillow, and despite the weirdness of the position, Dean finally felt tired.  
  
Cas turned his head to the side and smiled, lips curving up just a little, and Dean wondered if the longer Cas spent human the more he would do that—quick grins like he’d seen in the last few days. He hoped so. “Feeling more positive?” Cas mumbled, clearly stifling a yawn.  
  
“Tons,” Dean promised, curling a hand around Cas’s ribcage and stroking down. Cas’s eyes closed at the contact.  
  
He fell asleep tangled up in sheets, blankets, and Cas, and it was almost easy.  
  
  
  
They’d yet to leave Bobby’s house since the final showdown with Raphael, but the necessity of running into town for supplies hit Dean the next day. Cas couldn’t go on wearing his clothes forever; they were almost all too big for him, the jeans requiring a belt, the cuffs dragging on the floor. Though their heights differed by only a few inches, Cas was a lot leaner than him, and Dean suspected that Jimmy Novak had been one of those weird weekend distance runners.  
  
“C’mon,” he announced after breakfast, holding the back door open. “You need clothes.”  
  
They drove a few miles in the opposite direction of Sioux Falls proper first, though, and he didn’t need to tell Cas where they were going, because his companion already knew. Dean pulled off on the side of the road next to the field where the showdown had been, and Cas rested a hand on the door, uncertain.  
  
“Come with me,” he requested quietly, and Dean obeyed. They walked through dirt and grass toward the center, shoulders brushing, and the imprint was still there. Just Cas’s wings; Raphael seemed to have blown away, though everything was dead and scorched where he’d stood.  
  
Cas’s wings, though. The glittering black ash seemed to have sunk into the Earth, and when Dean leaned down to run his fingers through it, the way he’d accidentally done that day, it was hard and crusted to the touch, no longer the dust that had come away in his hand.  
  
“Look.” Cas pointed to a spot near where his body had lain, where Dean’s hand had gone to grip into feathers that were no longer there. His hand was vivid in the pattern of the wings, an imprint in an imprint. “You tried to heal me,” Cas said.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said quietly, and Cas’s shoulder twitched against his. “Do you think it’ll stay here?”  
  
Cas shrugged. The motion looked fluid on him now; it was strange how quickly he picked up on nuances like that after just a few days of being human, as though it was more natural, now. “I’ve never seen an angel’s wings harden like that. The way Raphael’s are blown away—that’s what usually happens. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Cas paused for a moment, considering. “Perhaps it is because I still live. I believe it is unprecedented.”  
  
Dean lifted a hand to clap into Cas’s shoulder, then left it there, a silent show of support. “I’m starting to think that should be your tagline.”  
  
Cas smiled up at him, looked back to his wings. Dean had expected Cas to grieve here, and he could feel a bone-deep, innate melancholy, but it was more than that. Cas looked at the remains of his wings and felt content.  
  
“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,” the angel murmured, “till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”  
  
Dean had never really seen a spot in his life for religion. Even the knowledge that God existed didn’t do much for him, because what was He, anyway, besides a manipulative, short-sighted old man? Belief didn’t give Dean reverence, didn’t give him faith, but Cas’s voice murmuring over the words of a script they’d ripped up still sounded a little beautiful to him. Poignant. It was a good goodbye, and Cas seemed peaceful as he turned back to the Impala.  
  
Dean put the windows down a crack in the car, and they drove through summer sunshine toward Sioux Falls. When the wind ruffled his hair, Cas smiled vaguely at the sensation, as though he enjoyed it. He liked, too, the stripe of sunlight warming his arm when he propped it on the sill, the smell of leather, the sound of the engine. Cas was a little like a kid; Dean felt him wondering at everything, in spite of his loss, curious and thoughtful and eager, the pain still lining his shoulder blades and spine a distant thing. For a moment, Dean stopped worrying. The quiet was peaceful and there was still work to do, but experiencing this secondhand awe of everything he usually took for granted made him go a little easier.  
  
Dean took them to Walmart, because the clothes were cheap and if Cas was set on hunting, they wouldn’t last long, anyway. Cas wasn’t picky; he tried on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt to assess what size he was, and then loaded their cart with enough clothes to get him through a week at a time. He’d clearly taken his cues for clothes from Dean and Sam: everything he picked out was solid, neutral colors, flexible and durable. Dean felt his thrill of pleasure as he passed fingers over a new, soft t-shirt, experiencing the sensation in a way he never had before. Dean wondered if he’d ever adjust to Castiel, Angel of the Lord, wearing jeans. Somehow, the tax accountant look had really suited him. Dean ducked away for a moment to the luggage aisle to pick out a duffel bag, a place for Cas to put his stuff, and he looked at it curiously when Dean came back.  
  
“We don’t get to have a lot of stuff,” he said, dropping the bag into the cart. “Not a lot of space when you move from motel room to motel room at the drop of a hat. But you need at least a little space to keep things.”  
  
Cas tilted his head to the side, processing as he sized up the duffel bag. “Like clothes.”  
  
“Sure,” Dean agreed. “But also personal possessions. My dad’s journal, I’ve got a copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five_ , some tapes, you know. Stuff.”  
  
Cas’s eyebrow arched up. He considered the bag thoughtfully. “And you just accumulate this ‘stuff’.”  
  
“Yeah. Stuff you like. Stuff you wanna keep.” Cas went on squinting at the bag, thinking, as Dean tossed a package of socks in their cart. “Boots,” he remembered.  
  
Cas turned his attention to his feet. “Yes,” he said, shuffling one foot to the side. The boots he was wearing—old ones of Dean’s—jiggled on his ankle. “Your feet are too big.”  
  
Dean snickered. Cas gave him a confused look. “I’ll explain later,” Dean said, adding silently, _when there aren’t packs of kids to overhear me_. Cas smiled at him.  
  
Dean let him smell all the deodorant he wanted and decide which one he wanted to use; he made Cas pick out a toothbrush and toothpaste, because those were things a lot of motels didn’t come equipped with; and Cas looked at everything curiously, like something so ordinary was strange and new, and it was sort of good to feel that through him.  
  
Dean was watching Cas try on boots when suddenly, uncomfortably close, a husky voice with a feminine lilt spoke from the end of the aisle.  
  
“Oh, Clarence, what did they _do_ to you?”  
  
She was closer to Cas, and he moved faster than Dean did; in an instant, he had Meg back against the shelves of shoes, his angelic blade at her throat. Dean blinked, still mid-step, but Meg was still grinning, just short of a laugh. Dean hadn’t even known that Cas was _carrying_ his knife, but it had slid out of his belt so quickly, still an extension of him, and it looked no less right than it ever had.  
  
“I assumed you burned in Carthage,” Cas said, his voice sliding down to a snarl. “I see that I left too early.”  
  
“I’m also unpleasantly surprised,” Meg shot back. “I was hoping you’d have more mojo, hot wings.”  
  
Dean was set to tell Cas to _sic_ , middle of a store in broad daylight or not, because this was the demon bitch who’d killed Jo, and he could still taste that last kiss like ash on his lips, but that statement brought him up short. “What, you were hoping he could smite you faster, get it over with?” he snapped. “Cas can still kill you just as dead right now. You can, if you want,” Dean added, and saw Cas’s hand tighten until his knuckles were white, both on the blade and on Meg’s arm.  
  
“I’m aware,” Meg said, lifting her chin. “I killed your best girl, you sure don’t owe me any favors, but we’ve got something in common.” She eyed Cas, sizing him up as he glared down at her. “More with poor human Castiel here than I thought, in fact.” Her gaze slid down to his exposed forearm, where the mark stood out livid in the fluorescent lighting. “Man, you just couldn’t shake Dean, could you?”  
  
“Talk,” Dean said, and to Cas, “hold off a minute, buddy. I want some clarification.”  
  
“Crowley,” Meg spat.  
  
“Ah,” Cas said; his smile was satisfied. “It certainly doesn’t pay to be a Lucifer loyalist when there’s a new King of Hell, does it?”  
  
“It doesn’t pay to be a Winchester when the King of Hell’s been overthrown, either,” Meg barked. “You cost him his seat, boys, and he’s on the warpath.”  
  
“Are you joking?” Cas said, a look of disbelief crossing his features. “If he couldn’t hold Hell without our help for one week, he was never going to hold it.”  
  
“Not to hear him talk,” Meg retaliated.  
  
“Let me get this straight,” Dean said, taking a step nearer to shield the confrontation from a passing sales associate. “Crowley’s been canned and he’s out for revenge. So what? He’s a punk-ass crossroads demon, what can he do to us that we can’t handle?”  
  
“Something about a contract,” she said, with a roll of her eyes, “something about _souls_ …”  
  
Cas looked sideways at Dean, his grip on Meg and the blade never loosening. “Bobby,” he murmured.  
  
“Yeah,” she mused idly. “The way I hear it, Dean, you’ve already got one soul down there in the Pit, I’d hate to see you lose one more—”  
  
“Do it,” Dean said flatly; Cas pressed the blade just into Meg’s throat, so that a bright red line of blood appeared.  
  
“You still need me,” she said, her dark eyes fixed on Dean now. “How do you think you’re going to take him out, huh? He’s still Big Daddy Crossroads, and you have a hard time handling me on your best days. How do you think it’s gonna go?”  
  
Cas paused, the blade still pressed into Meg’s throat, while Dean stared down the demon, revulsion and anger seething in his gut. “Why come to us?” Dean said.  
  
“Crowley has a special place in his heart for me,” Meg sneered back, but fear flashed in her eyes. “I’ll spend the rest of my life running after he shreds you. Demons don’t fight, they hide. I’ve got no one else to back me up on this.”  
  
“The way it sounds, you were hoping we’d do all the work,” Dean commented. “Unless you were bringing more to the table than pointing out Cas’s special powers.”  
  
Her eyes flicked between them. “Yeah, well,” she said. “Since Cas here is all juiced out, I do have a contingency plan.”  
  
“Enlighten us.”  
  
She eyed the blade at her throat. “Don’t think so,” she said. “I’ll talk when I’m sure you’re not gonna sic your angel on me.”  
  
Cas looked back at Dean. “It’s possible that she has the solution,” he said, voice low. “I doubt she would have risked coming here otherwise.”  
  
“Our deals with demons don’t usually go well, Cas,” Dean muttered. “There’s a reason we turned down Crowley.”  
  
“Not a crossroads demon,” Meg piped up; her eyes briefly flashed to black. “Don’t want your soul. Don’t want anything, really. It’s not a deal. It’s a…cease-fire. And considering what all you boys have done to me over the years, that’s fairly generous.”  
  
A tense moment passed, Dean and Meg staring each other down, but finally, Dean gave in. “Put her in the trunk,” he muttered, holding the keys out to Cas. “I’ll get your stuff and meet you out there.” He pointed a finger at Meg. “One wrong move, we kill you for the pleasure.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” she said sarcastically. Castiel lowered the blade, stowed it back in his belt—it was surprisingly well-hidden beneath his shirt—and kept one hand firm on Meg’s upper arm as they headed for the front of the store. Dean watched them go with a scowl on his face, then gathered the boots Cas had tried on from the floor and pushed the cart in the direction of the register.  
  
Whatever brief respite the world had granted them, it was clearly over.  
  
  
  
“You don’t think the angels would help us out with this, do you?” Dean muttered.  
  
“No,” Castiel replied, worn. Dean was anxious, and feeling vengeful; he presented a good front, had managed it since Castiel pinned Meg against the rows of shoes with a knife to her throat, but Castiel could feel his suffering. Being in the demon’s presence was a hardship for him, the blood between them bad long before Carthage. Castiel hadn’t known Jo and Ellen as well as Dean had, but he had liked them. The impact of their absence on Dean was reason enough for him to loathe the demon, if seeing her true face didn’t already accomplish that.  
  
And he could still see her true face, the lingering remains of his Grace enough to see the horror that had been melded in Hell.  
  
“Gabriel,” he continued finally, “is far too busy with the angels, and Balthazar is far too busy with Gabriel.” He considered mentioning that Balthazar was also already looking into the issue of Sam’s soul, but decided against it; this wasn’t the time. “Any other angel would likely hurt more than they could help. Brute force is not the way to deal with Crowley.”  
  
“Right you are,” Meg called from her prison. They had shuffled her from one devil’s trap to another and chained her to a chair in the basement, though she hadn’t fought them for a moment. Castiel could practically smell the fear on her, all tied up in the sweat soaking her hair, skimming her flesh. She had already been running for some time—weeks, maybe, or even months. “Which is why I have a better way.”  
  
“First things first,” Dean said roughly, turning from Castiel to face the demon. “You’ve gotta want something out of this, you demon bitch. So tell us what.”  
  
“I was honest when I said _nothing_ ,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. “Just Crowley dead. Maybe let me have the final shot. I’m not picky. And then I’ll melt out into the world and you won’t ever see me again.”  
  
“If we do, we’ll kill you,” Dean commented neutrally.  
  
Her eyes scanned the pair of them, and her lip curled up into a smirk. “God, you two are just adorable,” she said. “It’s just a perfect picture of righteousness and angst and big angry boots. Priceless.”  
  
“All right,” Dean snarled, his irritation flaring out to touch Castiel. He brushed back, trying to soothe Dean with a vague touch, and Dean quieted. “Enough,” he continued, more calmly. “Time to talk.”  
  
“Do we have a deal?” Meg pressed.  
  
Dean took a deep breath. “If you cough up something useful, sure. We’ll leave you alone. What the Hell, right?” he added to Castiel, disgust curdling in his voice. “It’d be nice to have a guarantee to see the back of her. She pops up at the most inconvenient fucking times…”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel agreed, “it is a worthwhile bargain. Talk,” he directed at Meg.  
  
“You’ve heard the rumor,” Meg said, her lip still curled in that derisive sneer. “Find a demon’s bones—from when they were human—and burn ‘em.” Her shoulders lifted, just slightly. “Dead demon.”  
  
“Yeah, we’ve heard the rumor,” Dean snapped, impatient.  
  
“It’s not a rumor,” Castiel allowed, eyes on Meg. “It’s true.”  
  
Dean’s head whipped sideways to stare at him. “You couldn’t have mentioned that sooner?”  
  
“You had the Colt,” Castiel pointed out. “And the knife. Both easier methods to kill demons than tracking down their bones and burning them. Most demons don’t remember their own humanity; it would be impossible to find their bones. Even exorcism is a better option. Less permanent, but…”  
  
“Well, bad news, angel,” Meg interrupted. “Those methods won’t work on Crowley.”  
  
“Like Hell they won’t,” Dean snapped. “He’s a demon, plain and simple.”  
  
“Okay, let me rephrase,” Meg sighed. “They _can_ work. But chances of you getting close enough to use them are slim. The bones, on the other hand. He can’t dodge the bones. But he’ll always dodge the bullets. Even if you get him in one of these.” She gave a cursory glance to the devil’s trap acting as her cage. “He’ll dodge until you run out of bullets. He’s powerful enough to smash the knife out of thin air if you throw it at him. But the bones. Burn the bones from a distance and he’s dead.”  
  
“That’s great, and all,” Dean said, frowning, “but we don’t know who Crowley was when he was human. Hell, we don’t even know where he was from.”  
  
“Then you’re in luck, because I happened to do some digging when Crowley became the big man in town,” she replied. “And I know where he’s from. Even know where his bones are. They’d be great leverage against, say, a soul. If you’re in the market for that kind of thing.”  
  
“You know,” Dean repeated. “Why haven’t you just finished him yourself?”  
  
Meg rolled her eyes. “Don’t see why you’re complaining, Dean.”  
  
“Don’t see why you’re not explaining,” Dean said sharply.  
  
Her jaw tightened. “I can’t be in two places at once,” she said coolly. “I go after them myself, there’s a chance he finds out before I even leave the continent. He’s had a tail on me for a while. Relax,” she added when Dean swore. “He already knows where you are, he’d have turned up by now if he wanted to.”  
  
“So why hasn’t he?” Dean gritted out.  
  
“I sense that he’s cooking up something big,” she sighed, slumping back in her chair. “He always was so theatrical. Dramatic.”  
  
Dean glanced at Castiel, jerked his head toward the stairs, and they retreated out of her earshot. “What do you think?” Dean asked, his voice low, eyes still on Meg over Castiel’s shoulder.  
  
“She’s telling the truth,” Castiel murmured back. “She’s angry, and afraid. She has no better option.”  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
“I can still see her true face.” Castiel didn’t look back at the demon; he’d always found them grotesque, but it was worse, somehow, now that he was human. “When demons lie, they lie with the bodies they possess, not with their actual essence. She’s telling the truth; whether she’s right, however, is another matter entirely.”  
  
“Right.” Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, and Castiel found himself wishing that Meg had put off her impromptu visit for another few days; Dean had only just begun sleeping well again, and he was worried about the hunter, who’d been more tired and careworn since their battle with Raphael than Castiel had ever seen him. Angry, afraid, yes, but he had never seen Dean so thoroughly rundown. But the hunter squared his shoulders, shook the glaze from his green eyes. “We should talk to Bobby.”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel said regretfully. “He should choose how we proceed.”  
  
“I’ll just hang out, then,” Meg yelled after them as Castiel followed Dean up the stairs. “Don’t mind me.”  
  
“God, she’s annoying,” Dean muttered over his shoulder.  
  
Bobby and Sam were waiting in the den, Bobby’s fingers drumming on his desk, a constant, nervous hum that Castiel watched vaguely. “Well?” the older hunter said.  
  
“Cas says she’s tellin’ the truth,” Dean answered, glancing sideways at Castiel, who nodded back. “She thinks she knows where Crowley’s bones are, claims that’ll kill him. And by the sound of it they’re far. She said something about leaving the continent for them.”  
  
“How does she know?” Sam asked, frowning.  
  
“Said she’d done some digging,” Dean said, rubbing a hand over his face again. “Don’t really know what that means. She must’ve been planning this for a while. Her and Crowley can’t have seen eye-to-eye since he abandoned ship on their whole…cause.”  
  
“Crowley’s careful,” Sam fired back, standing up. “If that bones rumor is really true, no way he’d let something like that slip, even back in the good old days.”  
  
“I don’t know how she knows it,” Dean snapped. Castiel reached out through the bond and he took a deep breath, backing down. “Sorry. I don’t. I don’t know how she knows, but she really believes she does.”  
  
“Fine.” They turned as Bobby got to his feet. “We’ll find out where we need to go. I’ve done some research of my own on Crowley; I’ve already got suspicions about where his bones might be.”  
  
“And you were planning on telling us when?” Dean barked.  
  
Bobby glared back. “I’m tellin’ you now,” he returned. “He drinks a real specific Scotch, if you lot haven’t noticed—comes from a very particular region. If Meg thinks we’ve gotta leave the continent, I’m betting she’s pointing us toward Scotland.”  
  
“You’re basing this theory on alcohol,” Dean said flatly.  
  
“It matches up.” Bobby’s tone was exasperated. “I’ll have a word with your demon. If I’m right, I’ll take her to Scotland myself, seeing as you wouldn’t survive a flight that long.” Dean ducked his head, embarrassed, and Castiel received the swift impression of a hunt on an airplane, years ago now, and Dean’s raw, continuous panic. Perhaps that was why Dean had never taken to angelic travel. “And you can summon Crowley from here, keep him busy. It’s leverage, plain and simple.”  
  
“Will he really go for that?” Sam asked, his brow furrowing. “Sure, it’ll kill him, but he’ll know you won’t get out of that deal if we send him up in flames.”  
  
“Maybe,” Bobby grunted, already heading for the stairs. “But it’d sure give me some satisfaction. If I’m gonna burn he might as well, too.”  
  
  
  
Dean showed Castiel how to launder all his new clothes that night, separating the jeans and the shirts. Bobby’s old washing machine rattled and clanked, but when he pulled out a tangle of damp t-shirts, boxers and socks they smelled pleasantly of detergent. While he untangled them and put them carefully in the dryer, Dean reloaded the washer with jeans. The hunter had been quiet since talking to Bobby a second time, buying tickets and cobbling together passports for a flight across the Atlantic, and Castiel hadn’t pushed him; the silence was pleasant enough, and if Dean needed time to think, he would give it to him.  
  
But Dean leaned back against the washer and yawned, exhausted, and Castiel reached out because the feeling in his chest overwhelmed him, but it was still a surprise when he wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist and Dean didn’t stiffen, didn’t lean back, just enfolded Castiel in return. He wondered if Dean was more patient with this because he was newly human, or if those barriers between them were just slowly deteriorating on their own, allowing an invasion of personal space that Dean didn’t even comment on but just accepted.  
  
“Can’t say I’m excited to see Crowley again so soon,” Dean muttered. “Fuck. I wish we were done.”  
  
“Done?” Castiel repeated, and Dean pulled back, just enough to look down at him.  
  
“Just seems like one thing after another,” he said, his hands light on Castiel’s shoulders. “Raphael—Bobby—and…Sam.” His mouth twisted down, fast and sharp. “We’ve still gotta deal with Sam.”  
  
“We’ll find a way,” Castiel soothed. “One problem at a time.”  
  
“Just doesn’t seem right,” Dean muttered.  
  
“Leaving him in Hell?”  
  
“No,” Dean said, meeting his gaze with a piercing stare. “Leaving him _here_.” He shook his head. “Sam…Cas, I miss him. Every day. Like a limb got cut off, or something. But at least when I thought—when all of him—was still downstairs, at least then, me missing him had some kind of purpose. My little brother, he made the ultimate sacrifice, and having that shell of him walking around, it just…cheapens it, feels like.”  
  
“Dean...” His guilt was suddenly new and sharp, a knife in his gut, and being human really magnified things in a way he hadn’t expected.  
  
“Stop,” the hunter said, his voice harsh. “I’m not sayin’ it to blame you, I’m only sayin’ it because I don’t know who else to say it to. Truth is, it scares me to death, the thought of putting his soul back in him. I know what my tour of Hell looked like. His has gotta be that much worse. And it’s already been thirty years for him.” His hands tightened on Cas’s shoulders. “Cas, I still…I still _dream_ about Hell. I don’t think I’m ever going to stop. And I’ve gotta get Sam back because I can’t stand the thought of him bein’ down there, but I can’t stand the thought of having to watch him suffer here, either. I want to help him, and I don’t even know how.”  
  
“You still function,” Castiel said quietly, because he wanted to believe it himself, that Balthazar’s warning was wrong, even if he knew otherwise. “You might dream of Hell but your existence is not _defined_ by Hell. When we retrieve Sam’s soul from the Pit, you will be the person best equipped to help him. You always have been.”  
  
“What if we can’t?” Dean asked, and he sounded lost, vulnerable. “What if for the rest of my life I have that Robo-Sam hanging around to remind me, constantly, of what I’ve lost?”  
  
Castiel didn’t know how to answer that. Sam was potentially horribly beyond repair; he couldn’t deny the truth there. Even if his soul was put back in his body, there was very little chance that he would ever be the Sam they’d known. Even worse, there was a chance that his soul would truly kill him, and Castiel had to acknowledge the truth of that, even if he didn’t want to.  
  
“Dean,” he said slowly. “I spoke to Balthazar, about retrieving Sam’s soul.”  
  
The flare of hope was sudden and instantly squashed again. “And?”  
  
“He expressed to me what we already fear,” he said. “That giving Sam’s soul back wouldn’t be what’s best for him...for the part of him that lives here. It will be very damaged, Dean. He has been in Hell for decades now. Sam will be the person who determines whether or not he can survive such trauma, and his odds are very poor.”  
  
Castiel could tell that Dean had expected nothing less; he nodded stiffly, his jaw set.  
  
“Balthazar is still looking into it,” Castiel said, trying to reassure. “If there’s a way to get Sam’s soul back, he’ll find it.”  
  
Dean squeezed his shoulders, tried to smile, but the look in his green eyes was lost. “Thanks, Cas.”  
  
Castiel heard a shuffling near the front of the house, turned toward the door that led out of the laundry room; Dean turned, too, frowning, and raised his voice, calling, “Sam?”  
  
But the front door just shut quietly in response.  
  
“Must’ve been on his way out,” Dean grunted, and pulled Castiel toward the den. “Don’t think he can stand to stay away from that bar.”  
  
It suddenly occurred to Castiel that he hadn’t seen Dean drink since he Fell, hadn’t seen a single bottle of whiskey or cracked-open beer in the last few days, and wondered why that was. Dean offered no illumination on the subject.  
  
“Let’s stay up here tonight,” he said instead, nodding at the couch. “I don’t wanna have to listen to Meg talking to herself downstairs.”  
  
A few syllables trailed up from the basement, not enough to make sense of, but it sounded like the demon was singing.  
  
“I agree,” Castiel said grimly, and then, because the unease in his gut felt like instinct, he asked, “Dean, do you think Sam was listening?”  
  
For a moment, Dean’s eyes darkened. “I hope not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Graphic sex.


	12. One Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What will you do to me, grasshopper? It’s a pretty knife, but I don’t think you know how to use it."

“We don’t even know if he’ll _come_ ,” Sam said, exasperated, as they gathered in the basement around the supplies. Meg had been let out of the Devil’s Trap, considering her impending trip abroad, but Dean still watched her and got the feeling that Cas was doing the same, his hand never far from the blade in his belt.  
  
“Of course he’ll come,” Meg said smoothly, ignoring the sets of eyes on her in favor of watching Bobby draw out lines between the candles. “He doesn’t know you have anything to use against him, and he’s probably just hankering to catch up since you stiffed him on the Purgatory deal.”  
  
“Tell me again how you even know about that,” Dean said, running a hand over his jaw and cracking his neck to the side. The night on the couch had been uncomfortable at best; neither he nor Cas had slept particularly well. Cas lifted a hand, touched the back of Dean’s neck, and frowned apologetically; he’d forgotten he couldn’t heal with a simple gesture anymore.

“S’okay,” Dean said, lowering his voice, because Cas looked half-disappointed and it made Dean’s stomach twist.  
  
Meg had turned to watch the display, curiosity lighting her dark eyes. Dean glared, and she merely stared back, impassive. “Word gets out when a king gets overthrown,” she said finally, her voice deceptively mild.  
  
“Yeah, I’m just wonderin’ how that word got to you,” Dean muttered.  
  
“Ear to the ground,” Meg said idly, her eyes flicking to Castiel now. Dean shuffled just enough to draw her gaze back to him, away from her scrutinization of the angel. “I pick things up.”  
  
“Showtime,” Bobby barked, interrupting the staring match. “Everybody back up and hope he walks into one of these damn things.”  
  
There were Devil’s Traps, spray-painted in glow-in-the-dark ink, overlapping every surface of the basement; they were invisible now, when the lights were on. Dean didn’t see how Crowley _couldn’t_ walk into any of them, but if any demon could weasel out of a Devil’s Trap, it was the King of the Crossroads.  
  
“I’ll be upstairs,” Meg said, side-stepping to the staircase. “Better not to rub his nose in my being here.”  
  
“You’ll be stoppin’ right at the top,” Bobby said casually as she started up.  
  
Meg made a face. “I would expect nothing else,” she muttered, turning to traipse up to the door.  
  
“Devil’s Trap?” Sam asked, watching her go.  
  
“Don’t want her making a break for it,” Bobby grunted. “But she’s right—if he already knows she’s been here, better to make it look like it was a short visit.”  
  
Bobby ran through the chant, struck a match, and dropped the flame in a bowl of herbs. Dean kept his hand tight on Ruby’s old knife. Maybe Meg was right, and it would be impossible to get close enough to kill Crowley with it, but they needed a contingency plan, and this was it. It wasn’t a good one, and he knew it, but then, they’d also had worse.  
  
Crowley didn’t wait long. His eyes flashed briefly red as he appeared in the basement; his features were creased with irritation, his hair unusually ruffled, his clothes marked with smudges and dirt, and Dean just hoped he wasn’t going to complain about demons eating his tailor again.  
  
“Boys,” he said, eyes scanning the lot of them, and then, zooming in on Cas, “Castiel. My condolences. Should’ve taken the deal.”  
  
“He’s fine with his choices,” Bobby said flatly. Cas didn’t react, just went on staring at Crowley with narrowed eyes. “We’re not here to talk about that. You’ve got somethin’ that belongs to me.”  
  
Crowley finally looked away from Cas, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “And you really think I’m in a position to give that back to you now?” he complained. “If your boys had just taken the deal, I might’ve been able to help. But I know little Meg has been tattling to you, so I know that you know that I’m not the big man downstairs anymore.”  
  
“You still hold his contract,” Dean said sharply.

“You’re missing the point, Dean.” Crowley shuffled, a frown twisting his features. “I need every little bit of insurance I can get, these days. Having Bobby Singer in the bag is one of the very few points I have left in my favor.”

“That’s not the point,” Sam interjected. “You got what you wanted. No Apocalypse. Raphael fried good and crispy. We held up our end of the bargain. Release him.”  
  
Crowley raised his eyebrows. “That wasn’t the deal, moose.” He stretched out a hand, raised his palm, and Bobby cringed, holding out his arms to reveal the red carved into his skin—the contract, Dean thought, stomach sinking. “I swore to make every effort to return his soul, but I can’t.”  
  
“Bullshit,” Dean snapped. “You just won’t.”  
  
“God, you’re an imbecile. Of course I _won’t_.” Crowley nodded at the writing scrawled on Bobby’s forearms. “There’s nothing in it for me. Now, if we get another opportunity to do business, and you numpties don’t bugger it up, I could be convinced.”  
  
“This _is_ the opportunity,” Dean replied, folding his arms over his chest. “Your _only_ opportunity.”  
  
Crowley smirked. “What will you do to me, grasshopper? It’s a pretty knife, but I don’t think you know how to use it. My condolences, Castiel,” the demon added, “but your boyfriend’s all bark.”  
  
Wordless, Bobby reached over and flicked off the lights, leaving them in the pale glow of candles and the faint outline of a dozen Devil’s Traps. Crowley was standing right on top of one, but he just sighed and shook his head.  
  
“I hope that isn’t urine,” he muttered distastefully.  
  
At that moment, Dean felt Cas go suddenly tense beside him, and he received the vague impression of something he didn’t actually see: a monstrous dog, materializing right next to the King of the Crossroads. His chest tightened, but he fought the instinct to fall back; instead, he took a half-step forward, partially shielding Cas from the line of attack.  
  
“You couldn’t have thought I’d come alone,” Crowley said idly, and Dean flinched when he heard the growl. Sam stiffened, too, raising his shotgun—loaded with salt—to his shoulder. Cas was still behind Dean, frozen in place. “Funny thing, me being overthrown, the dogs still love me best. Maybe it’s my long tenure as a crossroads demon that makes them so trusting. I always give them a good meal.” His eyes went back to Castiel, a taunt on his face. “Your angel’s no use to you, boys. Couldn’t smite a hellhound even if he closed his eyes and clicked his heels. So.”

He reached out beside him and patted the dog standing at his shoulder; it was nearly as tall as he was, lips locked in a slobbering snarl, and Dean remembered the dogs that had ripped him to shreds, the claws that had torn him wide open. Cas shuddered behind him, but it was a reaction born of anger rather than fear.

“Let me out, or I’ll make you doggy kibble.” When they hesitated, when no one made a move to scratch out a line, he added, warningly, “Now.”  
  
“No,” Cas said sharply, his voice unexpected in the silence, when Sam made to step forward. “We won’t.”  
  
Crowley grinned. “Oh, good,” he said. “I was so put out that I didn’t get to see your wings burn, angel. I’ll settle for watching my favorite pet gnaw you to death.”  
  
They hadn’t expected this, but Dean didn’t see any other way; they had to let Crowley out. He could see the hellhound through borrowed eyes, but they had no chance of killing the damn thing, and if Crowley had more, they were _fucked_ —but when he shifted forward, Cas’s grip closed like iron around his arm and yanked him back.  
  
“Cas, what the Hell,” Dean demanded, but Cas’s blade was already in his hand, their positions reversed. Crowley barked a laugh.  
  
“Think you can still use that, Cas? Cute, but you’re out of your league.” Crowley whistled sharply, and it was a blur of motion as the hellhound surged forward, Dean’s alarmed shout echoing just as Sam took a wild shot and missed by a few feet, the salt spraying the wall behind Crowley.  
  
Cas, whose hand had still been lightly on Dean’s arm, now pushed him to the side, hard enough to throw his balance; as Dean stumbled, Cas ducked beneath the hellhound’s lunge and came up behind it. It turned, following its quarry, and Cas slashed out. The dog yelped as his blade cut across its snout, but only faltered for a second. Cas stepped to the side again, the dog crashed past him, and he caught it with a long swipe of the knife down a haunch, staying a few feet outside Crowley’s Devil’s Trap with every movement. Dean was staggering back to his feet, his grip hard on Ruby’s knife, as the hellhound turned and dragged claws across Cas’s chest, and they only missed cutting deep by a quick slide backwards, but the movement unbalanced Cas and the hellhound saw its opening, leapt forward—  
  
And the thing was blurry, his vision unsure, but its massive paws landed heavily on Cas’s shoulders and pushed him down to his back; Dean saw red, was running forward to sink Ruby’s blade into the thing’s spine, but then it whimpered, twitched, and fell still, slumping down. It collapsed into Cas, who grimaced and pushed it off of him, yanking his blade from where it had been buried in the hellhound’s chest. The faintest of sparks fizzled from the wound as blood dripped to the concrete.  
  
Cas pushed to his feet, breathing hard, red spattered across his cheek, the narrow scratches in his chest welling up with his own, his shirt damp with the hellhound’s gore and slobber, but he stared Crowley down, coming close to the Devil’s Trap.

“We won’t let you out,” he said; Dean saw a haze of bloodlust in the angel’s eyes that had never been there before, felt the adrenaline racing in him as though it was his own, and stood stock-still, watching Cas face the demon on his own. “You may stay here until we reach an agreement that we approve of.”  
  
Crowley was seething, furious, his toes right at the edge of the trap. “How will you ensure that, angel?” he spat. “Will you string me up, have Dean torture me the way you made him torture Alastair?”  
  
Cas’s eyes flicked up, met Dean’s, and maybe he was just human now, juiced on the afterglow of putting down an evil son of a bitch, but something ancient still lived behind those eyes. “I have no doubt it would be effective,” Cas said, his tone serene. “Such drastic measures, however, will not be necessary.”  
  
  
  
They left Sam to watch Crowley while Bobby quietly freed Meg from her Devil’s Trap and headed to the airport, and Dean took Cas to the bathroom to clean up his wounds. He was half-angry, half-impressed, wanted to congratulate Cas as much as chastise him as the former angel pulled off his newly ruined shirt and examined his wounds in the mirror. Cas had still looked like a soldier, straightening up with gore splattered over him and a hard glint in his eyes and blood dripping from his blade, but he couldn’t just _poof_ better anymore, and Dean didn’t want him to forget that.  
  
“I believe I could fix this,” Cas said, examining the shirt and pointedly ignoring Dean’s turmoil. “It will not look as it did, but I don’t think it would matter.”  
  
“If you’re just gonna get in more bar fights with hellhounds, it probably wouldn’t,” Dean snapped, turning on the faucet.  
  
“Did you want to let Crowley go?” Cas asked, his tone hard with annoyance.  
  
“No,” Dean bit out, wetting a towel beneath the stream of water, “of course not, but—”  
  
“I was the only one who could see the hellhound,” Cas said, imploring.  
  
“I could see it, too,” Dean said irritably.  
  
“Not clearly enough to fight it,” Cas argued. “Dean, I am still much more skilled with blades than you are. I was renowned for it in Heaven.” He paused, then added, quieter, his eyes dark, “I did not become useless when I Fell.”  
  
Dean faltered, his anger deflating at the hurt edge in Cas’s tone. “Course you didn’t,” he said gruffly, swiping away the blood splattered across Cas’s cheekbone. “I didn’t mean that, Cas.”  
  
“Then I don’t understand,” Cas said, and he was suddenly more helpless and confused than angry as he looked up at Dean. “You said you would teach me to hunt. You swore it to me. Are you going back on your word?”  
  
“No!” Dean said, too sharply, and let the towel fall to the sink to grip Cas’s shoulders instead. “Of course not. You were great down there, Cas. Really.” A perplexed swirl of pride stirred up in his angel, so he went on. “I just don’t want you rushing into it too fast. You’re new to this, and you can get hurt a lot easier now. And it’s harder to fix up, when you do.”  
  
“You do this every day, Dean,” Cas said, frustrated.  
  
“Yeah, well,” Dean muttered, picking up the towel again. “It’s always easier to worry about everybody else instead of me. And I’ve been doing it my whole life.”  
  
Cas didn’t say anything to that, just looked at him with a kind of fond sadness in his eyes while Dean cleaned the shallow cuts. When he was finished, the scratches taped tight with bandages, Cas reached out and touched his cheek. “I’ll get used to it,” Dean said to the unasked question, trying to be reassuring. “Give me some time.”  
  
“Good,” Cas said, his hand falling to slot over the scar on Dean’s shoulder. “I am still a warrior, Dean, with or without my Grace. This is what I want.”  
  
“You want constant danger,” Dean said shortly. “A really uncomfortable life with shitty food and bad beds and no gratitude for what you do.”  
  
“I’ve never had gratitude,” Cas replied stiffly. “I don’t require it. As for the daily discomforts, I have experienced my share.” When Dean huffed, doubtful, Cas’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “I want to help people,” he said, earnest, sincere. “I want to help _you_.”  
  
“Okay,” Dean said, relenting, “okay. Just...do me a favor.”  
  
Cas tilted his head, quizzical. “What?”  
  
“Stick to the knife for now. You’re good with that. When we get a few seconds to breathe around here I’ll show you how to shoot.”  
  
Cas beamed, a small smile that spread into a grin and warmed his eyes, creased the crow’s feet at the corners, deepened the smile lines around his mouth. A quick flash—that was all; brief and sudden, gone again in an instant and leaving surprise in its wake. It was so easy to make him happy, to praise him and let him take pride in it, to promise him that he would be included and have him warm to the idea, and Dean wished he’d done it more often in the past, had given it more effort. But he was bad at it, and he knew it: bad at words, better at actions, because his mouth usually just got him in trouble, all that rage inside spilling out when he least expected it and least needed it.

Cas gripped into his hair and pulled him down, kissed him hard, and he thought that meant that Cas probably got it, probably understood.  
  
  
  
The night was long, and Castiel didn’t sleep well.  
  
He remembered the way the hellhound looked, the way it _still_ looked, dead and crumpled on the basement floor. He’d seen hellhounds before, had fought them in Hell easily enough, but they didn’t fit in his head quite right anymore, and every time he closed his eyes he could see it, snarling, eyes glowing, coming for him. He warmed to Dean’s praise, and killing it—killing it had felt—it had felt like killing had never felt before. He had felt half-crazed with it, heart pounding, breath rushing, a bodily reaction not dissimilar to sex, but his mind had been so clear, so calm, so ordered, and that wasn’t like sex at all.  
  
Dean shook him awake. The time on the hunter’s watch was ten past two. “Cas. _Cas_. Wake up, buddy.” His voice was scratchy, like he’d just woken up.  
  
Castiel stared up at him, blank, exhausted, confused. Only a moment before they had been downstairs, a monster had been at his feet, and Crowley’s true face had been screaming at his back, reaching for him with hands like claws.  
  
Dean smoothed down the hair on the back of Castiel’s head, fingers ghosting down to his skin. “You were dreaming,” he said, his voice gentle. “Was it a nightmare?”  
  
The hellhound’s face—mangled, slobbering, dark—reared up in his mind.  
  
“I...” Castiel didn’t know what to say; he felt lost, confused, adrift, shaky and _scared_ , coupled with the hot prickle of shame, and it was too much all at once, but Dean just stroked his palm down Castiel’s hair again, soothing him. A callous caught against his skin, a little rough patch, strangely comforting.  
  
“It’s okay. The hellhound, right?”  
  
Dean was so gentle in moments like these, so tender that it was hard to remember that Dean was a warrior; the callouses on his hands were wrought out of killing things, were created to destroy and not to soothe, but he felt the little catch like a mark of Dean’s reassuring presence anyway. He wondered if Dean was so good at this because he’d once had to reassure Sam the same way, comfort his little brother in the early days of learning about monsters.

Finally, wordless, Castiel nodded, trying to push away the image, the one that was too grotesque to bear.  
  
“It’s still in the basement. Think it being there is bugging you?” Dean said it like it wasn’t surprising or shameful at all, factual, succinct.  
  
“I don’t know.” Castiel’s voice was small, and Dean’s eyes were sympathetic. “Do you think that’s what it is? I don’t understand why—I’ve seen hellhounds before. Legions of them, in Hell.”  
  
“Not like this,” Dean said quietly. “Not human. Not when they can really hurt you.”  
  
He thought of saying, _They could hurt me then_ , but it was true, in its own way; a single hellhound would never have posed a threat to him before.

“Can we burn it?” he said finally. He felt terrible—guilty—for asking, because Dean looked so tired, but the hunter just nodded and got up from the couch, holding out a hand to Castiel to pull him up. Dean yanked on his boots and Castiel followed suit. They were already dressed; with Crowley just downstairs, Dean had automatically fallen back on sleeping-in-clothes rather than sleeping half-undressed, and Castiel had followed his lead. They needed to be ready.  
  
It was uncomfortable. He’d never been so aware of minor discomforts like these before.  
  
Sam didn’t sleep, so he was awake and watching the demon with a shotgun across his lap and a book in his hands when Castiel and Dean went down to the basement. He glanced up at them; clearly he’d been ignoring Crowley’s monologuing for some time now.  
  
“You guys don’t need to be up,” he pointed out. “I’m okay.”  
  
“Me and Cas wanted to get rid of the hellhound,” Dean said, rubbing a hand over his eyes.  
  
“You will not,” Crowley squawked.  
  
“Relax. We’ll salt and burn your favorite pet. Not planning on mutilating it or anything.” Dean flinched when Castiel glanced at the body and he unintentionally passed on the image. These beasts had once ripped Dean to shreds; Castiel remembered the body he’d found, cleaned to the best of Sam’s ability but with raw, open wounds, and shuddered.  
  
“What _are_ you planning on, you incompetent monkey?” Crowley snapped. “Letting me rot here?”  
  
“Great idea,” Dean grunted, stomping toward the hellhound. “Might have to soundproof the basement, though.”  
  
Crowley glared as Dean and Castiel lifted the dead beast. It was rank, stinking of smoke and brimstone, its patchy fur matted with blood. “Try not to look at it too closely,” Dean said, his voice low. He backed toward the stairs, leaving Castiel to follow, trying to avoid the sight of the haunches in his arms.  
  
“Not handling humanity too well, are we, Castiel?” Crowley gibed. Castiel’s eyes flicked up to meet the demon’s; a sneer curled his lip. “All those big bad memories, doesn’t fit too well in a _soul_ , does it?”  
  
“Shut _up_ ,” Sam groaned, looking up from his book. “Do you ever stop talking?”  
  
“Do you ever stop complaining, jolly green?” Crowley shot back, and Dean rolled his eyes at Castiel, beginning to back up the stairs.  
  
“Leave ‘em to it.”  
  
Castiel held up his end of the hellhound as he followed Dean up the stairs and out of the house. Sam’s voice and Crowley’s melded together in a distant shouting match, formless. In a far corner of the junkyard, Dean tossed lighter fluid and salt over the remains and dropped a match. The hellhound went up in flames as they stood by, watching. Dean’s shoulder brushed against his, solid and reassuring.  
  
“Bobby’ll call soon,” the hunter murmured. “Then he’ll be out of our hair.”  
  
Castiel ducked his head, avoiding the sight of the burning hellhound. The heat of the fire radiated toward him, pressing a perverse warmth into his skin, and he shivered in spite of it.  
  
“Is he right?” Dean asked, and the dread in his voice was enough to tell Castiel what he meant.  
  
“It’s difficult,” he admitted, and Dean’s shoulder pressed to his again, a bulk at his side. “I didn’t expect it to be simple, or easy. I never did.”  
  
“Anna didn’t seem...”  
  
“She sacrificed her memories, forgot her history as an angel. I always planned to keep mine.” Castiel breathed out, slow; even trying to parse some of his most ancient memories now was a challenge. “I believe I will adjust. I am unaccustomed to these…memories, experiences…provoking emotions.”

“Like anger,” Dean said. “You were…”

Castiel bowed his head; if he closed his eyes he could still see the dark earth, the grave, the body. Dean’s steady breath paused beside him, hitched at the memory.

“Hellhounds inspire a…strong reaction,” Castiel agreed.

He heard Dean’s half-formed thoughts, the gratitude and pleasure sparked by the force of Castiel’s protectiveness, but knew Dean couldn’t articulate them. He pressed back at the bond, the memory of Dean’s soul curling tighter into his Grace just before slipping away into a body made new, and Dean cleared his throat, awe briefly overwhelming him.

But when Castiel finally looked sideways at him, he was staring into the flames, agony shadowing his features.

“Cas,” he said quietly. “Won’t hunting just make it worse?”  
  
Castiel lifted his shoulders in a loose shrug. “I don’t know. But I can’t ignore all the things still roaming the Earth, damaging humanity. I want to help, Dean. This is the only way I know how.”  
  
Dean didn’t try to talk him out of it, and Castiel thought it was because he understood: Castiel had fought long and hard for his own freedom, and Dean wouldn’t impose any real limitations on that, not when it had come at such a price. Dean had stopped trying to regulate the people he loved when he let Sam jump into that cage. They had sacrificed too much for this to give it up now.  
  
“It’s not going to be...” Dean trailed off, but Castiel felt the impression of what he meant to convey all the same: the sleepless nights and endlessly healing wounds, the nightmares and the force of the anxiety that plagued him every moment of every day, the guilt, the exhaustion. Giving so much, _everything_ , and feeling as if it was never enough.  
  
Castiel lifted a hand to rest on Dean’s shoulder. “I know it’s not much consolation,” he said quietly. “But God seemed to think we were doing well enough.”  
  
Dean chuckled, the sound bitter. “That’s the thing, man. The approval of a deadbeat dad doesn’t feel much like approval at all. Shitty consolation prize. _Congratulations on fucking up less than me._ ”  
  
“Still,” Castiel said. “If the Creator believes we’re good enough, it must mean something.”  
  
Dean glanced sideways at him, a smile briefly tipping up the corner of his mouth. “Still a little faith in you somewhere, Cas.”  
  
Castiel shrugged, letting his hand fall. “I’ll admit that it’s hard to shake. I spent most of my existence without any shred of disbelief, and the Crown...”  
  
Dean twitched beside him, instantly on edge. “That was a trip,” he said darkly.  
  
“It’s not like before, but it did at least...reaffirm...that He had good intentions. Hopeful ones. I have a hard time faulting him for that.”  
  
Dean ducked his head. “Guess I always did, too,” he said, and Castiel knew he wasn’t talking about God.  
  
They were silent for a long few moments, watching the hellhound burn down to ash. “It won’t be easy,” Castiel said finally. “But I believe it’s worthwhile.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said roughly. “Guess it is.”  
  
  
  
Bobby called near dusk the next day.

“Phone call for you, princess,” Dean announced as they came down the stairs, tossing one of Bobby’s many landlines to Crowley. Castiel watched the arc of the landline—this one labeled _FBI_ , from the phone bank on Bobby’s kitchen wall—as Crowley lifted a hand to catch it, automatic. “Showtime,” Dean added in an undertone, lifting his own phone to his ear; he had Bobby on a three-way call with the demon.  
  
“Bobby,” Crowley guessed, lip curling into a sneer, phone now at his ear, too. “You ran off just as things were getting interesting.”  
  
“Just decided to take a little vacation,” Bobby’s voice echoed, tinny, from Dean’s phone. Castiel shuffled closer, both to hear better and to press a reassuring shoulder into Dean’s. He pushed back, the roll of his stomach quieting. “Your part of the world, Crowley. Real nice over here. The boys been treatin’ you well?”  
  
“Dandy,” Crowley replied, but there was a new wariness in his face beneath the current of irritation now. “Not a whiff of manhandling. You’d be proud, _Dad_ ,” and his eyes went to Dean’s with a smirk, “Dean hasn’t even bothered getting out the sharp and pointies. It bears wondering, though, how you’re going to get out of your contract by going to Europe.”  
  
“Like you don’t know,” Dean said, derisive.  
  
“Should’ve hidden your bones better, your majesty,” Bobby said. The flick of a lighter crackled through the line.  
  
Crowley’s expression paused now, hitched; Castiel saw the confidence and charisma leave his eyes, now curiously blank, and saw his true face shudder. Dean flinched beside him as the image radiated, and Castiel tried not to focus on the creature inside the man. Sam smiled at Crowley’s sudden discomfort, the expression cold, and it somehow chilled Castiel more than the demon ten feet away.  
  
“That won’t help,” Crowley said, the words a reflex, vaguely imploring. “The contract isn’t absolved when I burn, children.”  
  
“I’ll take my chances,” Bobby replied, and Castiel heard the distant hiss of flame.  
  
“Stop,” Crowley said, too sharp, and sighed, an edge of defeat in the lines of his eyes. “Bugger,” he muttered, and then, tilting the phone back toward his mouth, “let’s do business.”  
  
“Glad you see it our way,” Bobby said, a note of cheer in his voice. “Release my contract—but keep in the part about my legs—and we’ll let you walk.”  
  
“With my bones,” Crowley retaliated.  
  
“No,” Dean replied, a smirk on his lips now. “Time for _us_ to have some insurance, for once.”  
  
Crowley glanced between the three of them. Bobby flicked his lighter again, thousands of miles away, and the demon grimaced.  
  
“Don’t take to threatening me every time you scrape your knees,” he growled. “I’m not an angel, boys.”  
  
“No one would suggest that,” Sam commented. “We’ll leave you alone, you leave us alone, and we won’t use your bones as kindling.”  
  
“Because mutually-assured destruction has historically worked so well in negotiations,” Crowley returned, but he raised a hand and snapped his fingers.  
  
“Bobby?” Dean asked, waiting for confirmation.  
  
“Let him out,” the hunter replied, his breath caught with momentary discomfort. Castiel imagined the words fading from his skin, etching themselves out. “It’s done.”  
  
Sam stepped forward and scratched a line through the Devil’s Trap holding Crowley prisoner. The demon’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be seeing you, sasquatch,” Crowley said, squinting up at Sam, and with a disgusted glance at Dean and Castiel, he vanished.  
  
“You couldn’t have worked me into that deal?” Meg hissed from the other end of the line.  
  
“Relax, kid,” Bobby retorted. “He’s going to be too busy working these bones out of us to worry about a pipsqueak like you. Get gone.”  
  
“Done,” Meg said, voice sour.  
  
“Come on home, Bobby,” Dean said, scrubbing a hand over his eyes in relief.  
  
“Thanks, Dean,” Bobby replied, and Castiel suddenly felt as if he was intruding on a very old bond; he stepped slightly away, looking toward Sam and the broken Devil’s Trap instead of at Dean. Sam was looking at the line he’d scratched, a faint frown creating a crease between his eyebrows as Castiel watched.  
  
“Don’t mention it,” Dean said gruffly. “You’ve saved our asses enough times—’bout time we returned the favor.”  
  
Bobby snorted on the other end. “You think this wipes the slate clean, boy, you’ve got another thing comin’.”  
  
Castiel felt, rather than saw, Dean’s smile, the warm relief of it spreading out. “Whatever, old man,” he shot back. “We saved the world once. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”  
  
“Not a damn,” Bobby replied. “See you in a few days.”  
  
“Keep the bones close,” Dean warned.  
  
“Was I born yesterday, idgit?” Bobby snapped, and there was a faint click as he hung up.

“One down,” Dean muttered, ending the call.

Sam looked up; his lips twitched toward a quick smile. “Probably won’t be that easy for me,” he said regretfully. 

“No,” Dean allowed, but he stepped forward to clap Sam’s shoulder, anyway. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll hit the books, Cas’s got his angels on the case, and maybe I’ll have a genius idea.”

Sam snorted. “Sure, Dean.”

There was something about the way Sam’s eyes shifted that made Castiel uneasy, but images of Crowley were still turning his stomach, the hellhound still haunting his mind; he pushed it aside and followed Dean upstairs to help with dinner, taking advantage of the contagious nature of Dean’s good mood.


	13. Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m fairly certain I could build a shotgun, Dean. I’m just not sure how good I’ll be at firing it.”

“Your arms are too stiff.”  
  
Cas squinted sideways at Dean, huffed, and made a visible effort to relax his arms. Dean could hear his irritation, prickling sharp and steady at their bond, and it was hilarious, really, teaching a being as ancient as Castiel how to fire a handgun, and to listen to his utter _petulance_ through the whole thing.  
  
“You never practice such careful form when shooting at things,” Cas pointed out.  
  
“ _I_ am not just learning. Do it right before you do it different. God, you don’t have to be so resentful,” Dean muttered, and stepped up behind Cas, mirroring his stance. “Look, it’s not that hard.”  
  
“You’ve been wielding firearms since you were six,” Cas said reproachfully. “Of course it isn’t hard for you. I have all the technical knowledge of how this device works, but putting it into practice is—”  
  
“Just relax.” Dean pressed a kiss into the crook of Cas’s neck, right where skin slipped beneath t-shirt, sweat glistening in the South Dakota sun, and Cas’s arms loosened, elbows unlocking.  
  
They were near the back of the salvage yard, the Impala pulled up beside them, trunk open; Dean had spent the last hour teaching Cas to break down and build up the handgun again, watching him until he could do it without a hitch. It had been over a week since his brawl with the hellhound, the scratches had healed nicely, and Dean had felt him getting impatient a few days ago, squirming to start learning about how humans became hunters.  
  
He still didn’t like the idea, and Cas was more anxiety than excitement; he could feel it, the hum of uncertainty emanating through the quiet connection that stretched between them. In spite of that, though, Cas was determined, and Dean had made a promise.  
  
“See?” Dean grinned, reaching around to shift Cas’s arms just to the right, closer to one of the bottles lined up fifteen yards away.  
  
“You’re cheating,” Cas rumbled, but he didn’t really seem to mind; Dean saw the smile struggling to stay hidden at the corner of his mouth.  
  
“No such thing.” Dean nudged a foot between Cas’s legs, pulling his right foot back to rest slightly behind the line of his left. “The stance you had was fine,” he said, hearing the unformulated confusion. “Better center of balance, better mobility this way. We need to move a lot when we’re firing. Ghosts are fast; they don’t need to run. Wendigos have inhuman speed. Werewolves are much stronger than we are—all the things we hunt are more powerful than us. More powerful than you. Use every advantage you have.”  
  
Cas nodded, just a slight, sharp jerk of his chin, but Dean knew he was listening, attentive to every word. The angel wanted to be taken seriously. Dean could feel the drive to hunt, bright and sincere, even under the fear; it was so genuine, so honest, so untarnished. The things that drove Dean to hunt seemed so petty and human in comparison, dark and furtive: revenge, guilt, the killer in him, the slaughter that had been wrought deep in Hell and had never really gotten scrubbed out—and the only way he could unleash it, the _only_ way, was to just kill the things that were evil, save the slaughter for the black spots on the world.  
  
“Okay,” Dean said. “Remember that it’s going to bounce back at you when you pull the trigger. Not like a shotgun, but it’ll give your hand a good push. Just be prepared. And until you get used to the noise...” He dug bright green earplugs out of his pocket, and when Cas just looked at them in confusion, he put them in Cas’s ears himself. “Still hear me?”  
  
“You’re muffled,” Cas said, with a note of surprise.  
  
Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, genius. Your ears are sort of new, technically speaking, and guns are loud. Don’t want you blowing an eardrum.” He took a half-step back, mirroring Cas’s stance, watching closely.  
  
“Should I...?”  
  
“Just aim and pull the trigger, Cas.”  
  
For a handful of seconds, Cas focused, the line of his thinly-muscled arms tensing and releasing, sweat gleaming on the back of his neck, glistening in his hair; Dean breathed in the smell that was still faintly _angel_ under the deodorant, and then an old beer bottle exploded, shattering bright specks of colored glass glittering into the sunlight.  
  
Dean whooped, and Cas smiled, pleased, quick and then gone as he pulled the gun back to his body, the way Dean had shown him. “That wasn’t so bad,” he allowed, and Dean had to agree; he held the gun less gingerly now, his hands comfortable in the cradle they formed around it.  
  
Dean clapped a hand to his shoulder, left it there in a squeeze. “It’s yours.”  
  
Cas turned to him, a brief flicker of surprise reaching out. “What?”  
  
“You’re going to need more than my stash of weaponry. As many handguns and shotguns as there are hunters; that’s the rule. Better to be overprepared. It’s the same model as mine, but, you know. Newer.”  
  
“Did you steal it?” Cas asked, voice wry, and Dean pretended to be affronted.  
  
“No. Bought with hard-earned money. Well, money earned hustling pool, which, for us, is hard-earned money.”  
  
Cas smiled again; his thumb flicked the safety up and he carefully set down the gun in the trunk of the Impala. “Thank you, Dean,” he said sincerely; he reached out, and his fingers caught around Dean’s wrist, squeezing tight for a moment. “It is...good to have your support in this.”  
  
Dean tugged him closer, grinning, and Cas came, smiling quietly, until Dean wrapped a hand around his hip and pulled him in for a kiss. Cas tasted like sweat and adrenaline, skin salty against Dean’s nose, lips soft beneath Dean’s mouth, moving eagerly against him, and things weren’t perfect, probably never would be, but moments like these, everything kind of seemed okay, more okay than it ever had. The Apocalypse was behind them, an archangel was on their side up in Heaven, Bobby’s soul was safely in his possession, Crowley’s bones were well out of his, and maybe they hadn’t sprung Sam from the box yet, but Dean could taste it, something like hope, there on the warmth of Cas’s lips.  
  
“S’what I’m here for,” he muttered when he pulled back. “The Model 1887 is the store version. Maybe someday I’ll let you build your own.”  
  
Cas squinted up at him, still half-smiling. “I’m fairly certain I could _build_ a shotgun, Dean. I’m just not sure how good I’ll be at firing it.”  
  
“Yeah, well. Let’s save the parts you already know for later. This is more fun.” Dean nodded to the new Colt lying alongside his in the trunk, listening to a car pull into the front of the lot; by the sound of the engine, it was Sam, back from the salt-and-burn he’d been taking care of in a nearby town. “You’re not done yet.”  
  
Cas let go of his wrist, fingers prying apart one by one, and picked up the handgun again. Dean leaned back against the trunk and watched, with more than a mild sense of pride, as Cas hit more targets than he missed, sending up a spray of broken glass with almost automatic precision. Bobby had been in touch with his ID guy (Dean thought his name was Frank, but Bobby was closed-mouthed on the subject), taken a few necessary stock photos of Cas against a white sheet draped in the living room, and all the forms of identification he’d ever need as a hunter were now neatly piled in the glove box with Dean’s. He would have to make Cas practice pulling out his ID right, so it didn’t end up upside-down, and thought that maybe it would be smart if Cas was the silent partner for a while, watching and learning until he got to know people a little better.  
  
 _Partner_.  
  
He watched as Cas modified his stance, just slightly, and shot again, at a target further off. It was the first time he’d ever put a definitive name to the two of them, and it didn’t matter that it was more a professional term than a private one; _partner_ fit. It felt equal, solid, reliable, and even if it made him flinch to think of how many times he’d introduced Sam that way— _this is my partner, Mr. Whatever-His-Name-Is-Today_ —it was different, somehow. Sam had always been the partner who hadn’t had a choice, bound to him by blood, dragged through the hunt because circumstance wouldn’t allow him anything else, but Cas had _chosen_ him, over and over.  
  
“And I would again,” Cas commented, shifting his aim to another target.  
  
Dean heard Sam’s footsteps long before he edged around the Impala; his boots kicked up dirt, grating and quick, and when he ducked around the trunk he had a quick, perfunctory smile for Dean. Cas tensed in reaction, picking up on the falter in Dean’s good mood, and missed, hitting a tree a few yards behind the bottle.  
  
“Not bad,” Sam said, clearly attempting to sound supportive. He leaned back against the trunk beside Dean as Cas took aim again and, this time, hit his target.  
  
“He’s learning,” Dean said, and had to work to stifle the pride in his voice; it felt a little misplaced, a little strange, when he was still not thrilled about the idea of Cas, the hunter replacing Castiel, Angel of the Lord, but it was still something to be there for his rite of passage into humanity.  
  
And there was something still ethereal about him, about the way the sun caught in his dark hair, about the hint of silver flashing at his belt when his shirt lifted, about how very blue his eyes were—something still so angelic about him, despite the ache that Dean could feel in his shoulders, the slight discomfort at the sweat trickling into his t-shirt.  
  
“Get rid of the ghost?” Dean asked, rolling his own shoulders back.  
  
“Pretty standard,” Sam confirmed, folding his arms across his chest. He looked no worse for the wear, his too-long hair—Dean swore he hadn’t cut it since he’d evicted Sam from Stanford—pushed back from his face, no hint of blood or dirt, his clothing still worn but immaculate. Sam had been a good hunter—maybe not as good as Dean, but only because he’d taken four years off, only because he was younger and more inclined to research—but now he outstripped Dean and Bobby, possessed a ferocity that Dean was half-envious and half-afraid of.  
  
“Look,” Sam said, and he didn’t look at Dean as he spoke, searching the ground instead, “I know you guys have been working really hard on getting my soul back.”  
  
Dean glanced sideways; Sam’s eyebrows were drawn together, tense, as he considered his boots. Cas had turned from his target practice, thumb catching to turn on the safety and then tucking the gun into the back of his jeans, the way he’d undoubtedly seen Dean do too often.  
  
“And I really appreciate it,” Sam continued. “I just want to know if...if you’ve figured anything out. About what it would do to me.”  
  
“Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves,” Cas pointed out, half a smile on his lips as he removed the earplugs. Sam shrugged, almost apologetic.  
  
“Look, there’s no point in lying to you,” Dean said bracingly, watching Sam trace a boot into the dirt. “You know what Hell did to me.”  
  
“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Cas said matter-of-factly, and Dean shot him a warning glare. Sam looked caught between a laugh and a cringe.  
  
“Yeah. Whatever. Point is, it’s worth it to hang onto your soul. And I know I’m not exactly the poster-boy for mental health, but I made it through. I’m okay. And when I’m not, I’d still rather have the thing.”  
  
“It’s confusing,” Sam confessed, looking up, between the pair of them. “I know I’m supposed to care about some things...I’m supposed to care about both of you. I _remember_ caring. And I feel like I should, you know, get that back. But...” And Sam trailed off, hesitated. Dean wondered how much of that was a carefully-scripted act, and how much was genuine; it was almost impossible to tell.  
  
“But what?” he prompted, when the silence stretched on.  
  
“But what if it kills me?” Sam asked, and Dean hoped that it didn’t show on his face, how the bottom dropped out of his stomach. “Look, I’ve heard you two talking about it. I know what the angels have said.”  
  
“We also doubted Dean’s survival, during our siege of Hell,” Cas said, with an apologetic glance at Dean. He shrugged back. “We knew that he was a...favorite...of Alastair, who was arguably the cruelest demon in existence. Lucifer is worse, undoubtedly, but his methods will also be very different from Alastair’s. Overall, I believe that you have a good chance of survival. No worse than Dean’s.”  
  
“Dean’s turned out so well,” Sam said, exasperated.  
  
“Hey,” Dean protested. “I’m fine.”  
  
“You’re a high-functioning alcoholic,” Sam said, unconvinced.  
  
“To be fair, he displayed signs of alcoholism before Hell,” Cas said clinically, ignoring Dean’s irritated look.  
  
“At least I have the ability to feel bad about it,” Dean snapped. “I’m not straight out of a Čapek play.”  
  
Cas tilted his head just slightly to the side, the lines around his eyes half-amused, as though Dean had surprised him. Sam just snorted.  
  
“Is it that great, feeling bad about it?”  
  
“No,” Dean said honestly. “It fucking sucks. But at least it makes the good moments that much better. At least there _are_ good moments. Look, I can promise you, Sam would have wanted his soul. He wouldn’t have traded it to be a better hunter, and that’s all you’re getting out of this deal.”  
  
“Sam drank demon blood to try and stop the Apocalypse,” Sam returned, letting out a sigh as he got to his feet. “Are you really trying to convince me your brother didn’t do whatever was necessary, no matter the cost?”  
  
“That was different,” Dean said, even though his mouth had gone suddenly dry. “There’s nothing on the line, now. There’s nothing to trade _for_.”  
  
“But can it even be done?” Sam pressed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Without letting Lucifer, and Michael, and the entire damn Apocalypse back out again?”  
  
“We’re looking into it,” Cas said, firm and reassuring. “It won’t be easy, but if it can be done, we’ll find a way. I got part of you out with no repercussions—there should be a way to retrieve your soul in a similar way.”  
  
“All right,” Sam muttered, giving in. “Just make sure nothing else gets out.”  
  
“We’ll fix it,” Dean said, reaching out to clap a hand to Sam’s shoulder. “Okay? Trust me. You don’t have a moral compass right now, so believe me when I say this is the right thing to do.”  
  
Sam smiled again, quick, perfunctory, a curve that didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure, Dean.” He nodded to Cas and headed off around the Impala, trudging back to the house.  
  
“He’s fucking weird,” Dean muttered under his breath, watching Sam go.  
  
“There’s still something Sam-like about him,” Cas mused, coming to stand beside him. “He’s very...stubborn. Points out your flaws to draw attention away from himself when he feels attacked.”  
  
“Hey,” Dean said, affronted.  
  
Cas looked sideways at him. “He’s right, you know. You have good weeks and bad days, but it’s accurate.”  
  
“It’s a hunter thing,” Dean defended, because it was useless to pretend that he didn’t know what Cas was talking about.  
  
“So you wouldn’t protest if I, hypothetically, mirrored such behavior?”  
  
Dean saw a flash of 2014, of drug-hazed blue eyes, ever-present pills and bottles, a blissed-out, vacant smile on the face of his angel. “That’s different,” he said firmly.  
  
“It’s not,” Cas said mildly, touching his shoulder. “And you know it.”  
  
But he dropped it, because that was Cas: he knew when to push and when to back off, when a battle wasn’t worth fighting, but Dean knew it wouldn’t be the last time it came up.  
  
Angels became such _nags_ when they Fell.  
  
“I heard that,” Cas murmured, half-amused and half-annoyed, but Dean just slipped an arm around his waist and pulled him near, planning ways to make him forget.  
  
  
  
Long after Dean had gone in to make dinner—if he still drank, well, at least he was eating more home-cooked meals of late—Castiel stayed, by the light of the Impala’s headlights, setting up new bottles, close and far away, reloading the Colt until it felt almost natural in its repetition, until the trigger gave under his finger like it knew him. There was a serenity in it, the act of adjusting his stance, his grip, finding the right position in his arms; he thought it was a good sign that Dean had left him alone with a loaded weapon, a sign that Dean trusted him.  
  
He would need that, in the months ahead of them, every little reminder of Dean’s support.  
  
“I know you’re there, Gabriel,” he said, squinting at a bottle fifty yards in the distance. He pulled the trigger, and a heartbeat later, the bottle erupted, shards of glass peppering nearby trees.  
  
“Still have some freaky angel senses?” the archangel joked, stepping out from the shadows beyond the Impala as Castiel turned to face him. His eyes drifted to the gun, even as Castiel flicked on the safety and tucked it back beneath his belt; he didn’t enjoy the feeling of the cold metal against his back, felt the bulk of it was too foreign, and thought about asking Dean if a holster was possible. “Not wasting any time, I see,” Gabriel commented. He seemed halfway between disapproval and admiration.  
  
“I planned to become a hunter when I Fell,” Castiel replied, pushing himself up to the hood of the Impala. “Dean has been less than thrilled about the idea, but accommodating.”  
  
“Whatever floats your boat, kiddo. Guess you’ve earned it.” Gabriel leaned back against the Impala beside him. “The mood around here is better.”  
  
“The situation with Crowley has been resolved. It’s a weight off all of us.” Castiel pressed his hands into the cool, black metal, and it felt like comfort. As an angel, he’d been half-convinced that the Impala had its own soul, quiet and unassuming, as though grown out of Dean’s own, and even human, he could feel it, the soft welcome that it reached out to him, reassuring.  
  
“And Sam?”  
  
Castiel glanced sideways at the archangel. There was an unhappy frown between his eyes, wrinkling his brow. “Still searching,” he said at last. “Do you have any suggestions?”  
  
Gabriel looked up, and his hazel eyes flashed briefly in the light, sliding to amber and then gold. “Are you asking for help, little bro?” he said, his voice not quite up to his usual sarcasm.  
  
“Yes,” Castiel said flatly. “If you’re offering it.”  
  
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Gabriel complained, looking toward the rows of shattered bottles. “There are a few things I know for sure have the juice to get him out, no problem. Death, for one thing.”  
  
“The horseman?”  
  
“He’s partial to Dean,” Gabriel said, and wrinkled his nose as though the sentiment was beyond him. “They made a deal and Dean didn’t back out of it. The trouble’s getting in touch with him—even I can’t help you there. He hates me.”  
  
“I’d imagine he’s not fond of me, either,” Castiel commented, amused. “We’re both disrupting the natural order.”  
  
“So is Dean, but he’s not complaining about that,” Gabriel muttered. “Then there’s God.”  
  
“God doesn’t have the power,” Castiel correct. Gabriel shot him a look of surprise, and he glanced away, avoiding the searching gaze.  
  
“The Crown wasn’t really a passive weapon, huh,” Gabriel guessed, almost sympathetic.  
  
“It took us back to where it was forged,” Castiel explained. “He was...already weak. He expended the majority of His remaining power in creating the Crown, and the rest on resurrecting us, removing Sam and Dean from Lucifer’s escape. I doubt He possesses the ability to survive Hell.”  
  
“Well,” Gabriel huffed. “Scratch that off the list, then. Death. Just Death.”  
  
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “What about you?”  
  
Gabriel hesitated a split second too long. “It’s a bad idea,” he said at last. “I’d probably stand a better chance of success than you did, but it’s not a guarantee.”  
  
“What if we could give you an easy way into Hell?” Castiel countered. “Clear the path, make getting to the box simpler?”  
  
Gabriel cast him a reluctant look. “How would you accomplish that, kid?”  
  
“We have Crowley’s bones,” Castiel said smoothly. “And he’s a recently ousted King of Hell. We could convince him to draw attention to himself; most of Hell would rise to attack him. You could slip in virtually undetected.”  
  
“ _Convince_. Blackmail, you mean. You’re making a powerful enemy, Castiel.”  
  
“He’s a crossroads demon,” Castiel replied, frowning. “King of the Crossroads, yes, but not more powerful than that.”  
  
“No one’s certain,” Gabriel warned. “Crowley has been...ambitious...for a relatively young demon. Powerful, for a dealer. Don’t underestimate him.”  
  
“Could it work?” Castiel pressed, disregarding this.  
  
Disgruntled, Gabriel shrugged. “It might,” he relented, a sigh heavy in his voice. “God knows it’s heartbreaking to see the damn moose like this. Freaky. Reminds me of when I killed Dean all those times and he went off the deep end. Total serial killer, even with a soul. He’s like that.”  
  
Castiel stared at Gabriel, who stared back, unapologetic. “You killed Dean,” he said flatly.  
  
“A hundred times or so, yeah.”

“You’re joking,” he said, searching Gabriel’s smirk.

The archangel shrugged. “Technically, he doesn’t even remember it. It was a time loop, a trick. Back when they still thought I was a Trickster. Sam’s the one who had to live with it.”  
  
Castiel frowned deeply. “I don’t see how that makes a difference. Sam is important to me, as well. That was...unkind of you.”  
  
“I was actually trying to help him, believe it or not,” Gabriel said grumpily. “Those two, they never learn. That the other is their Achilles’ heel, that the bad guys always know it. I thought it would give him some perspective. Just made him nuts about finding me and getting revenge.” He snorted. “But even with that serial killer vibe, he still had the worst puppy eyes. Bet this version couldn’t pull that if he tried.”  
  
Castiel’s eyes narrowed; he studied Gabriel, surprised at what he had surmised. “You care for Sam.”  
  
Gabriel barked a laugh. “God, kiddo. Being human has made you _so_ sappy. I _identify_ with the bastard. You and Dean, you’re the righteous ones, the ones with _purpose_ , the ones with the mission. Me and Sam...” He paused a long moment, considering the trees illuminated by the Impala’s headlights. “We just wanted to keep our families together,” he said at last. “Ran away when it wouldn’t happen.”  
  
“You have a mission now,” Castiel pointed out, gently as he could.  
  
“What, fixing Heaven? It’s been broken as long as it’s existed. Well. As long as _humans_ have existed. As long as they’ve been thought of.” When Castiel opened his mouth to protest, Gabriel waved him off. “I don’t resent the little monkeys for it. It was there to be broken. We’re... _I’m_...obsolete. You’ve got a soul, so I guess you hit the evolutionary jackpot.”  
  
Castiel hesitated, and then, curious, asked, “Are you sure?”  
  
Gabriel reached out, pressed two fingertips to Castiel’s temple, and flinched. “Soul,” he confirmed. “More soul than Grace, though I don’t think you’ll ever lose all of it. I’d guess trueform angels will still blind you, but I’m betting you can see demons.”  
  
“And hellhounds,” Castiel murmured as Gabriel pulled his hand back.  
  
“You really wanted this, huh,” Gabriel said, and it was curious, a little sympathetic, only a hint disparaging.  
  
“After I learned to _want_ , I think, I wanted this.” Castiel looked down at his hands, felt the soft ache in his upper back where muscles unused to firing a weapon were sore, the low trickle of warmth at Dean’s distant presence. “I disliked the condition when my superior skills were needed, but I have always loved humanity.”  
  
“That’s why He stopped making angels, after you,” Gabriel muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Couldn’t get crazier than that.”  
  
Castiel inhaled sharply. “What?”  
  
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Keep forgetting the younger ones are all kind of unaware of this. You were the last angel He ever created.”  
  
Castiel could feel his pulse, hard and fast, against his ribcage. “So it’s true. The rumors.”  
  
Gabriel’s features darkened suddenly. “Raphael?”  
  
“I suspected,” Castiel said faintly, his voice thin; it was suddenly hard to breathe. “He must have made me…He must have made a mistake. For me to _want_ this.”  
  
“No,” Gabriel said sharply. “That’s a lie, conceived by Raphael to undermine you. Father...” He hesitated, the lines around his eyes softening again. “The younger generations are more inclined to rebellion for a reason. He was trying to make you more like _them_ , in the hopes that you would adore them more—love them, more than you loved Him. The way He wanted us to. The closer He got to humanity, though, the thinner a line He walked. He couldn’t make an angel who loved humanity more than you without forcing them to Fall the moment they were created. It was a surprise that it took as long as it did, that Anna rebelled first, but I guess you needed Dean.”  
  
Castiel’s sight had blurred, and Dean’s presence faltered in the distance, listening, worried. There was a prickle of water on his skin, and he brushed the back of his hand over his cheek, surprised when it came away wet.

“He didn’t make me wrong?” His voice was thick, funny, his sinuses burning.  
  
He’d never seen Gabriel look so sympathetic, so sad, his features twisting into an unhappy frown. “No, kiddo,” he said gently, resting a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “He made you the best He could. Raphael knew it, too, that bastard,” he added, an afterthought, and Castiel laughed, sudden and wet, the sound a little choked.  
  
“Cas?” That was Dean’s voice, shouting from the distance.  
  
“That’s my cue to leave,” Gabriel muttered, squeezing Castiel’s shoulder before letting go, but Castiel reached out, catching his elbow.  
  
“You’ll help?” he asked, and the archangel sighed in defeat.  
  
“I need some time to prepare, but yeah. I’ll give it my best shot. Just be ready.” He smirked, snapped his fingers, and vanished with the rustle of wings.  
  
Castiel wrapped his hands around his knees and took a shaky breath, trying to compose himself. He could hear Dean getting closer, boots scuffing into the dirt as he approached. He’d never felt something quite like this keen sense of grief before, sorrow and relief all tangled up and pouring out of him in shuddering gasps, and maybe he’d needed a soul to really feel it, but it hurt, aching in his chest beside his tapering heartbeat, more than his shoulders and arms, more than the peculiar itch in his healed scrapes, more than all of it combined, bone-deep, sinking into him until he felt buried in it.  
  
When Dean came around the hood of the Impala and found him, he was wiping a shaking hand across his eyes again, still trying to stop the salty flow of tears. “Cas,” Dean said, and it was unaccountably gentle, a little worried with an edge of anger. “What’s wrong?”  
  
 _Nothing_ , he wanted to say. _Everything’s fine_. But he just choked out a wet laugh, incapable of forming words through the peculiar sensation of his throat being stuck, and Dean heaved himself up on the hood, draping a warm arm around Castiel’s shoulders and pulling him in until his face was buried in Dean’s shirt, the soft spot between chest, shoulder and throat, and he shook while Dean murmured to him, soothing nonsense words, streams of “it’s okay” and syllables that all ran together, and he tried, through their bond, to impress on Dean what had happened, what Gabriel had told him, the more important thing, the news about _Sam_ , but he couldn’t clear his mind enough to focus, enough to tell Dean that it would all be fine.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Dean murmured, a few minutes later when Castiel’s head ached and he couldn’t breathe through his nose. “Gabriel makes me feel like crying, too.”  
  
Castiel laughed again, short and weak; it was all he was capable of. He felt wrung out, tired. “Gabriel,” he tried, and had to clear his throat; his voice had come out utterly wrong. “Gabriel will help us. Retrieve Sam’s soul.”  
  
Dean looked at him, arm still around his shoulders, his green eyes shrewd. “I got that. Enough of it, anyway. What I didn’t get was whatever set off the waterworks.”  
  
Castiel swallowed. “It isn’t important.”  
  
“Like Hell.”  
  
“He told me...” Castiel cleared his throat again; his voice was more gravel than ever, and it hurt, his voice aching as he spoke. “He told me that my generation of angels, the younger generations, was God’s attempt to make us love humanity more than Him. And I was the last, because if He had made an angel love humanity more than I did, that angel would have Fallen immediately.”  
  
Dean grinned, and it was _proud_ , and pushed Castiel dangerously close to breaking down all over again. “Told you He made you best.” He slid down from the Impala and held out a hand to Castiel. “Come on. I made lasagna. Sam put vegetables in it.”  
  
Castiel smiled when Dean’s nose wrinkled in distaste and took his hand, letting the hunter pull him down. Dean slung an arm around his shoulder again, warm and reassuring, as they walked back to Bobby’s house. He thought that he could have borne not knowing, that the rumors and insinuations would have bled to the back of his mind someday, but he preferred this: to keep some semblance of faith in his Creator, to retain some little love of his Father, even if it had been long eclipsed by humanity, and to feel that he was _justified_ in it, because he had been loved in return, loved enough to be set free.  
  
Dean leaned sideways, just enough to brush a kiss against his temple, then let a hand trail down Castiel’s back before pulling the handgun out of his belt. “I’m starting to rethink the idea of storing a gun like that,” he muttered, laying it on Bobby’s battered coffee table as they made their way inside, and Castiel just smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I know about guns is learned second hand from boyfriend/Wikipedia/YouTube instructional videos/how the Winchesters behave with guns. If any of you wield firearms professionally, feel free to criticize my undoubtedly weak understanding of their intricacies without mercy—having never fired one myself, I’m only relating information gleaned from research. 
> 
> Also according to Internet, the Colt 1911 is the handgun Dean most frequently uses; the shotgun mentioned here is carried throughout Season 5.


	14. Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re inviting me on a hunt?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnotes for warnings about this chapter.

A week later, Dean found an obituary that stank of another restless spirit in Minnesota.  
  
“It’s pretty straightforward,” he told Cas over breakfast as the former angel dug into a stack of toast with relish, his blue eyes still sleepy, dark hair sticking up wildly in every direction. “Me and Bobby could probably take care of it, but it’d be good experience for you.”  
  
Cas stopped chewing, a flicker of surprise cutting through the drowsiness. “You’re inviting me on a hunt?”  
  
“The easiest kind you’ll ever see,” Dean snorted, sprinkling salt over his eggs. “I mean, ghosts are a pain, the whole incorporeal thing is annoying, but find out who they are and where they’re buried and they’re done. Worst that’ll happen is you might get tossed into a wall, if it’s a powerful one, but they’re really only a serious threat to civilians.”  
  
“Civilians,” Cas repeated, a smile turning up the corner of his mouth. He took another bite of toast, reaching out to curl a hand around his cup of tea. He’d declined coffee, even when Dean had grudgingly let up on the caffeine ban, claiming that it didn’t smell particularly appealing to him, and had picked up tea with milk instead, running through a few flavors before he found one he liked. It smelled like spice, cutting through the haze of coffee that laid, thick, in the air of Bobby’s house.  
  
Dean brandished a fork in Cas’s direction. “Which we’re not. So. We’ll be fine. If you wanna come.”  
  
“Of course,” Cas said, smiling. “I wouldn’t miss it.” Dean scooped up a mound of scrambled eggs from his plate as Cas leaned back with his tea, legs stretching out beneath the table to knock into Dean’s ankles. Dean gave a half-hearted shove back. “We’ll need salt rounds, shotguns, if we visit the location of the haunting,” Cas said absent-mindedly.  
  
“Good,” Dean said, half a smile on his lips before he realized it. “Think you’re ready?”  
  
Cas shrugged. “It’s a matter of some practice, isn’t it?”  
  
“You’ll get the hang of it,” Dean reassured.  
  
They went on eating in a companionable silence, Cas’s sock feet playing around Dean’s calves whenever he shifted in his seat. The former angel looked good: more comfortable and relaxed by the day, the scars around his scalp from the Crown of Thorns all but completely faded. He was sleeping better, woken less often by nightmares, learning to recognize the signs that he was tired. As Cas relaxed into humanity, Dean felt himself loosening up too, layers of worry peeling away from his shoulders. Cas had been a soldier for longer than Dean could fathom, and he adapted like one, determined to learn, to understand, to thrive. Dean felt a swell of pride in his chest whenever he watched Cas shooting at their makeshift range; whenever he laughed at a joke, however late; whenever he drifted to the kitchen in search of food because he’d realized he was hungry. Cas was taking to humanity a lot better this time around.  
  
It was a relief.  
  
“One thing, though,” Dean said, grimacing as he considered it. “You need to get an anti-possession tattoo.”  
  
Cas looked over the rim of his mug, considering this. “Yes. I’m surprised you didn’t bring it up earlier.”  
  
“It’ll hurt,” Dean warned, pushing back from the table and picking up both their plates. “I wanted to give you some time to adjust to your own skin before we started carving it up.”  
  
Cas lapsed back into silence, sipping his tea, as Dean dumped the plates in the sink and turned on the hot water. “Where should I put it?” Cas asked finally, as though this was a matter of grave importance.  
  
Dean shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter. I wouldn’t suggest your arms or legs, though—if you keep it somewhere on your torso, it’s easier to conceal.”  
  
He heard Cas’s chair scrape back, and then the angel was at his side with both their empty mugs. “I think I would like to have it on my back, near my shoulder,” he mused, leaning back against the counter. “It would be...poignant. A symbol of what I achieved, when I sacrificed my wings.”  
  
It didn’t help that he’d gotten used to Cas without wings again; Dean could still see them in his mind’s eye, the enormous black shadows that were so ethereal and so fitting for Castiel, Angel of the Lord, feathers curving out from his shoulder blades through the trench coat that had burned. The memory was vivid despite the brevity of time he’d been allowed to see them, maybe redoubled by Cas’s own recollection. He could still feel their cool softness beneath his fingers, could still see the subtle colors showing through the black.  
  
For a moment, his throat tightened, and Cas, sensing it, reached out to press a hand into his shoulder. The t-shirt he wore—one of Dean’s, despite the fact that he had his own fucking clothes, but Dean couldn’t find it in him to mind—exposed his forearm, where the scar of Dean’s hand still lived in his flesh.  
  
“I miss them, too,” he admitted quietly. “You made them beautiful.”  
  
“I made you a bird,” Dean grumbled back, but he couldn’t help but agree; Cas’s wings had been an awe-inspiring sight, powerful and elegant.  
  
“I still consider it a worthwhile sacrifice,” Cas said. “But I will always remember them fondly.”

“What were they like before?” Dean asked, scrubbing a plate clean. Cas’s hand had fallen from his shoulder, but he was close, his arm brushing Dean’s. “Before Hell? I know you said they were indescribable, but...”

Cas’s lips curled up in a surprised smile; he ducked his head. “I don’t remember,” he confessed. “Perhaps Balthazar, or Gabriel, would be able to tell you, but...I can’t even call up the image of my original wings anymore. The only wings I remember are the ones you gave me.”

“Huh,” Dean said, and for some reason, he smiled, too.  
  
  
  
That afternoon, they found a quiet, empty tattoo parlor with a lone artist inside in Sioux Falls, and in just under an hour, the anti-possession charm was inked into Cas’s shoulder blade.  
  
The girl who did it looked at the design curiously, but didn’t say anything; Dean caught her smiling, almost giddily, every time he squeezed Cas’s hand when he felt a particularly strong surge of pain come through their bond, every time he muttered, “You’re doing great, buddy.” She was young; Dean would put her at barely mid-twenties, sporting a mane of wild brown hair and bright hazel eyes behind black-framed glasses, wearing a plaid shirt that dwarfed her frame with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. She’d introduced herself as Molly, and she stuck her tongue beneath her teeth as she worked, careful and concentrated.  
  
The design was the same as Dean’s, but he asked the girl, quietly, if she couldn’t put in a few streaks of color here and there—an edge of blue, a flash of purple, a streak of green; if this was to replace Cas’s wings indefinitely, he wanted it to be accurate, to remind the angel of who he had been, who he still was, biology and anatomy aside. He watched as she lined the black ink with hints of color, and it wasn’t what he’d been able to see in Cas’s cool, liquid feathers, but the echo was better than nothing.  
  
Cas drifted in the low undercurrent of discomfort as the girl worked, mostly calm, his cheek propped on the padded table; the sharpened pain came when she colored in the tendrils of expanding sun that stretched toward his spine and toward the furthest left edge of his shoulder. “It’s important that it be on the heart side,” he’d said, very seriously, just before she’d put the stencil on. “The symbolism is meaningless if it’s not.”  
  
Dean got that; it was probably the same reason his was also near his heart, though he hadn’t put much thought into it at the time, and he didn’t examine it too closely now.  
  
“Okay! You’re done.” Cas sat up as the girl replaced the tattoo gun in her station. “Would you mind if I took a picture? I like to keep a portfolio of the tattoos I do, and yours is really unique.”  
  
Cas glanced at Dean, who nodded subtly, letting him know it was okay. “Yes,” he said amiably, and she got out a digital camera to snap a picture before she placed a bandage over the new design.  
  
“Leave the bandage on for at least two hours,” the girl warned as Cas slid his t-shirt back over his head, grimacing as the tape around the bandage pulled. “Here’s a list of instructions for taking care of it—it should heal in two weeks. You’ll probably need to help him clean it,” she directed at Dean. “It’ll be hard to reach. Are you allergic to any kinds of ointment?” she asked Cas.  
  
“I’m not sure,” he answered, puzzled.  
  
“Let’s find out.” She grabbed a nearby tube and opened the cap, putting a dot on her fingertip. “Hold out your hand.” Cas did as she said, and she gently rubbed the ointment into the web between his thumb and forefinger. She peered at the skin carefully for a moment, then shook her head. “Doesn’t look like it. But if it gets red at all over the next few hours, or itchy, don’t use this ointment on your tattoo; try another one until you find one you’re not allergic to.” She handed the tube to Cas, who pocketed it, and led them to the front counter and ancient cash register to pay.  
  
“Were you interested in getting anything done today?” she asked as Dean handed over several twenties.  
  
He cleared his throat and pulled down the collar of his t-shirt, exposing his own tattoo. “Nah,” he said, smiling. “I’m covered.”  
  
She grinned back, counting out his change. “Gotcha. How long have you two been together?”  
  
“Nearly two years,” Cas answered, and Dean had to cover his noise of surprise with a ferocious cough.  
  
She beamed at Cas. “You’re very cute together. Have a good day, guys.”  
  
Back in the Impala, Dean raised an eyebrow at Cas as he turned the key in the ignition. “Two years?”  
  
Cas returned the look with one of confusion. “It’s been almost that long since I found you in Hell.” He paused as Dean went on looking at him, confusion turning to uncertainty; he tilted his head to the side, just a fraction of an inch, and Dean hoped he never stopped doing that, because it was such a _Castiel_ thing. “Was that not what she was asking?” Cas questioned.  
  
Dean laughed. “No. She was asking how long we’ve, you know. Been _a thing_.”  
  
Cas squinted at him. “A thing.”  
  
It was hard for Dean to come out and say, even now, so he just slid a hand beneath Cas’s, draped their fingers together. “This,” he said quietly, turning back toward Bobby’s as he pulled Cas’s hand toward him across the seat.  
  
Cas looked down at their hands, surprised, and said, “Oh,” very softly. He mulled this information over for a moment. “My estimation was incorrect, then. This is...recent.”  
  
Dean shrugged. “She’ll never know the difference.”  
  
But Dean kept a hand beneath Cas’s on the drive back to Bobby’s, the warmth bleeding into his palm, and more than once, he saw Cas smiling out of the corner of his eye, the wind ruffling his dark hair through the cracked window of the Impala, his fingers tightening, almost imperceptibly, around Dean’s. This thing he had with Cas, it was still new for him, felt almost fragile when his thoughts touched it; he had only played at relationships before, and he might have been in over his head to be getting serious with an angel older than Earth itself, but for all that Cas had been Castiel, Angel-of-the-Lord, he was also just _Cas_ : head tilts, squinty eyes, calm reassurance, the rarest, warmest of smiles, the disregard for acceptable social behavior, Dean’s best friend.  
  
He wanted to say the words, reassure Cas of what he probably already knew, give him some stability, maybe even comfort, but they stuck in his throat. He’d never been good at declarations. It was too intimidating, to wear his battered heart on his sleeve and hope for the best; it had already been carved out of him a hundred, a thousand times, brought into the open to be tortured and burned, so his instinct was to secret it away, to push down the choked emotion it conveyed to him, for fear that it would be used to hurt him, to destroy him. Hell had taught him that much, though maybe he’d already known: love could burn you alive, turn back and bite you, turn you like a rabid dog on the people you’d gladly die for, put you out of your mind with pain and guilt, and he remembered the nightmares he’d had, the ones he still saw sometimes, where he tortured the people who mattered most because he was no better than the animal he’d been reborn as in Hell.  
  
He wondered what the fuck he thought he was doing, if this was selfish, to thrust _this_ —the burden of Dean Winchester, the failed Righteous Man—on Cas, now, of all times; if this was a mistake, a crime he ought to be tried for, but when he put the Impala in park in the dark of Singer Salvage Yard and Cas dragged him across the seat by the hand that he still held, he forgot it all. Cas pressed a kiss that burned into his lips and warmed him on the way down to the leather seats, covered his body with a newly human frame and offered Dean a fresh start, a new life, one that he hadn’t thought possible.  
  
The Impala was a little cramped for two grown men to be making out in the front seat like teenagers, but they managed: Dean’s balance precarious, on his back across the leather with a jacket under his head, one foot firm on the floor, one leg up and resting against the back of the seat; Cas propped on his elbows over him, hips narrowly fitting between Dean’s legs, pressing them together with the weight of gravity wearing down on him. It was frantic, furtive, demanding, Cas sucking a bruise into the crook of Dean’s neck as Dean’s hands rucked Cas’s shirt half-up, roaming over the moving skin, muscle and bone, fingers frantic on belts and zippers until they were close enough to bare and grinding against each other, slicked by spit and sweat and precome, the lingering humidity of a South Dakota breaking out perspiration on Dean’s brow, making Cas’s hair glisten at the temples.  
  
Cas was wild above him, hair sticking up where Dean had run his fingers through it, his lips bruised and blue eyes deep, sharp, vivid; Dean caught his hands around Cas’s hips and pulled him down harder, pressing up in the same stroke with the leverage of his foot on the ground until the pleasure caught in his chest and threatened to suffocate him. Cas was moaning, low and continuous, the sound dark and intoxicating, inhibition gone: he was hot and rigid against Dean’s cock, thrusting with abandon, chasing pleasure and whimpering as Dean dragged him down for a kiss. He nosed Cas’s chin up, swiped a tongue across his neck, caught at the stubble there as he moved down to the hollow of Cas’s neck; he moved in a haze, following the noises Cas made under his hands and lips, traced the old Enochian scars with his mouth as Cas’s strokes slowed and pressed down harder, and then Cas was shaking, spilling over Dean’s skin with Dean’s name a moan on his lips.  
  
Cas only paused for a moment, trembling, and then pushed Dean back to recline on the seat with a soft _thump_ , and Cas’s lips were around him, swallowing him down, enveloping him in soft heat. Cas’s tongue stroked, long and broad, as his mouth stayed tight and wet, sucking him off agonizingly slowly. He struggled to keep his hands light in Cas’s hair, to not buck up into his mouth, and Cas’s fingers tightened around his hips, holding him down, forcing him to enjoy it slowly, but he wasn’t going to last long, not with the pressure in all the right places.  
  
“Cas,” he groaned, trying to pry the angel off, but Cas wasn’t having it, sucking Dean down as far as he could on every stroke. “Cas,” he panted, and his hand scrambled for something other than Cas’s scalp to bite into, “Cas, _Castiel_ ,” and the last syllable was a broken moan as he came, fingers digging into the underside of the seat so hard that it hurt, spikes of pain prickling through his joints.  
  
He glimpsed what might have been a self-satisfied smirk before Cas draped himself over Dean, cheek pressed to Dean’s chest, head tucked under Dean’s chin, and Dean lifted a shaking hand to stroke his hair back. “You,” he muttered, and had to clear his throat. “Where did you learn to do that?”  
  
“I’ve watched humanity for a long time, Dean,” Cas’s muffled voice informed from his chest, deadpan.  
  
“Perv,” Dean mumbled, accusatory but fond.  
  
Someone knocked loudly on the roof of the Impala; Dean tilted his head back, unable to see anything except a vague, dark shape through the fogged-up glass. “You guys aren’t subtle,” Sam’s voice informed, before his boots stomped off toward the house.  
  
Cas chuckled, and when Dean started laughing he didn’t stop until tears were streaming from his eyes.  
  
  
  
“Sure you don’t wanna come?”  
  
“I think you, Cas, and Bobby can handle one vengeful spirit,” Sam said, exasperated, from his perch in Bobby’s den. “‘Bout time I got a break, I’ve been doing all the hunting, here.”  
  
Castiel felt Dean tense, a knee-jerk reaction to the criticism, but he relaxed almost immediately; he’d been in a pervasively good mood since the day before, humming under his breath that morning as he made coffee, and it seemed that even Sam’s errant comments were failing to damage his positivity.  
  
“Whatever, asshole,” Dean said cheerfully, smacking Sam in the back of the head; Sam glared as Dean made his way to the door, Castiel and Bobby close behind. “Stay here with your damn books, see if I care.”  
  
“I hope Bobby’s taking his own car,” Sam muttered, disgruntled. “Wouldn’t want to get back in the Impala after—”  
  
“Shut up!” Dean barked, talking over him, as Bobby rolled his eyes and grumbled _idjits_ , half-affectionately, under his breath. “We’ll meet you in Worthington,” he added to Bobby.  
  
Castiel cracked the window on his side of the Impala, letting the breeze comb fingers through his hair as they drove. Dean was quiet, letting the music fill the silence, and Castiel was content to close his eyes and enjoy the streaks of sunlight falling through the car, even though his stomach had begun to flutter.  
  
“You’re nervous,” Dean remarked finally, as the feeling got stronger.  
  
“Not about the spirit,” Castiel replied. “We’ll have to...talk to people.”  
  
Dean cast him a surprised glance. “Probably. Easiest way to figure out who the ghost is, what it wants.”  
  
“I’m not good at talking to people,” Castiel pointed out, and his stomach clenched at the thought. “They always look at me as if I don’t make sense.”  
  
Dean barked a laugh, and looked abashed when Castiel glanced away, a little wounded. “You’ll get the hang of it, Cas,” he said, his voice reassuring. “Just stick with me and Bobby this time, and don’t say too much. You’ll pick it up soon enough.”  
  
“I take things too literally,” Castiel murmured. “Misinterpret people.”  
  
“That’s what happens when you spend too much time around angels,” Dean replied, irritation briefly crumpling his features. “They all take things too literally.”  
  
“Our—their,” Castiel corrected, and felt Dean’s quiet flinch, “understanding of language is different than yours. More straightforward.”  
  
“Yeah, well. I think ours is better.” He paused, and then said encouragingly, “You’ll get there, Cas. Pass in society, and all that. And if people notice the way you talk—so what? Yeah, we try not to get noticed, but there are a hundred other things that draw attention to us besides your way of saying things. Don’t worry too much.”  
  
They lapsed into silence again, Castiel reassured, Dean focused on the road. They slowed as they pulled onto the road that curved around Okabena Lake; the haunting was focused in a cabin near the south, secluded end, and they had made an appointment with the real estate agent on the premise of getting a closer look. Castiel had read the most recent obituary and the others that Dean had dug up from the same address; there had been ten deaths, all within the last five years.  
  
“Remember your name?” Dean asked, now checking numbers on houses.  
  
“John Wesson,” Castiel replied.  
  
Dean pulled into a driveway. “Good. And who am I?”  
  
“Robert Irving. Is this level of deception always necessary?” Castiel asked, though he already knew the answer; lying was still not even second nature to him, a foreign thing that made him feel clumsy and suspicious.  
  
“The fewer people who know our real names, the better. I promise. Come on.”  
  
“Where’s Bobby?”  
  
“Probably stopped off in town to interrogate the civilians. We get the house.” Dean nodded to the door as he cut the engine. “I’ll introduce myself and you to the real estate agent. Just relax. You won’t have to talk at all, and if you want to say something but you’re not sure you should, just run it by me first.” Dean tapped his head with a smirk and got out of the car. Castiel followed, his stomach still tight with nerves.  
  
The house was old and big, a weathered A-frame with enormous windows like blank eyes. “Nice digs,” Dean muttered as he rapped on the door. “If it wasn’t haunted.”  
  
The woman who answered the door was middle-aged, blond hair streaked with silver, tired lines around the corners of her brown eyes, but her voice was bright when she spoke. “Hello!” she said with a practiced smile. “My name is Judy; you must be...?”  
  
“Robert,” Dean said, and his smile was practiced, too, charming and loose as he held out a hand to shake the agent’s. “Irving. And this is John Wesson.”  
  
“Nice to meet you,” she said, taking Castiel’s hand in turn. “I’m glad to see someone interested in this old place so quickly. It’s been hard to keep it off the market in the last few years.”  
  
“Really,” Dean prompted, vague curiosity in his features as they stepped inside. Dean was a good actor; Castiel just tried not to draw attention to himself. “That’s hard to believe. Place like this, you’d think no one would ever let it go.”  
  
The realtor laughed, but it seemed strained, even to Castiel’s untrained ear. “We’ve had a few unfortunate accidents with the last several owners. You know how these things go—people get wind of something like that and superstitions just come to life.”  
  
“That’s too bad,” Dean said sympathetically. “How old’s the place?”  
  
“Sixty years,” she said, leading the way to the kitchen. “Obviously it’s been remodeled; the builder’s son lived here until five years ago, he did most of the improvements.”  
  
“Yeah? What made him give the place up?”  
  
“You must be from out of town,” she said with a tired smile. “It was a nasty incident, Stewart Harris’s murder. The case was never closed. Everyone knew about it.”  
  
Judy took them through the house, showing them into the dining area, the lower level, and then the two bedrooms upstairs. Castiel stayed quiet, trailing beside Dean as the agent opened the last room for them.  
  
“I’ll let you two talk,” she said, and with a last smile, showed herself out. Castiel heard her footsteps recede down the hardwood stairs.  
  
“Nice place,” Dean said appreciatively, when she was out of earshot. “Too bad it’s haunted.”  
  
“You’re sure it’s haunted?” Castiel asked, bending to examine a window more closely. It had been replaced recently; the glass was dissimilar to the panes on either side of it.  
  
“A guy who lived here until five years ago and then died suddenly and violently? Unfortunate accidents with the last several owners—all after this Harris guy died?” Dean snorted, flicking aside one of the curtains. “Yeah, that’s a vengeful spirit. Just because he’s not making noise doesn’t mean he isn’t here.”  
  
“Then where is he?” Castiel asked.  
  
“They don’t always wake up just because someone’s stomping around. Sounds like he’s let the last few owners move in before he took ‘em out; could be he needs someone to be living here before he gets trigger happy.”  
  
Castiel felt the change in the air before Dean noticed anything; the hair on the back of his neck stood up, the temperature dropped several degrees, and downstairs, the real estate agent screamed.  
  
“Shit,” Dean muttered, yanking his sawed-off shotgun from where it had been hidden beneath his jacket. “Then again, sounds like we’ve got company.” The door slammed shut behind them, the curtains ripped away from the recently replaced window, and the agent screamed again, louder this time, a foreboding gurgle in her voice.  
  
Castiel pulled his own shotgun from beneath his jacket, scanning the room in the opposite direction that Dean did, hoping that between the two of them, they wouldn’t miss anything. “You getting a freaky vibe from that window?” Dean yelled over the gust blowing around them.  
  
“It was replaced recently,” Castiel called back, tucking the shotgun against his shoulder. “Perhaps this is where he died?”  
  
“Fuck, we are in the wrong place,” Dean said, backing toward the door. He rattled the knob, to no avail, while Castiel faced the window, his back to Dean, still watching for the spirit to materialize; he heard a thump, felt a muffled spread of pain, and knew that Dean was throwing his shoulder into the door, trying to knock it down. Downstairs, the real estate agent had stopped screaming.  
  
“We’re out!” Dean shouted, just as a man materialized a few feet in front of Castiel.  
  
He didn’t give himself time to think; the reaction was almost automatic. He moved the gun, just a bare inch, and fired. The spirit dissolved with an angry howl.  
  
“Good one! Come on!” Dean grabbed his elbow and yanked him out the door, toward the stairs. “We’ve gotta find Bobby, this is worse than I thought—”  
  
From behind him, the spirit shoved, and Castiel staggered into Dean, nearly knocking both of them down the long flight of stairs. Over the railing, Castiel could see the real estate agent, her prone figure slumped on the floor, blood staining her blond hair at the temple. Dean lifted his gun over Castiel’s shoulder and fired, forcing the spirit to fall back; Castiel’s ear rang from the shot, a high-pitched warble in his head, as Dean grabbed his arm again and pulled, until they were running down the stairs. Instead of making for the door, though, Dean turned back toward the body.  
  
“Cover me!” he shouted. “She might still be alive!”  
  
Castiel, heart pounding, tucked his shotgun into his shoulder and walked backward, following Dean, watching for any sign of the spirit’s reappearance. The house had been quiet since the last shot, the blown-open doors swinging idly on their hinges. Dean knelt down behind him, searching for a pulse, and Cas felt it suddenly beneath his fingertips, a flutter that echoed his own blood, roaring in his ears.  
  
Movement flickered to his left, and the spirit solidified; he wrenched his shotgun toward it and fired, feeling the gun snap back against his shoulder as the ghost dissolved again.  
  
“You’ve gotta go!” Dean shouted.  
  
“What?” Castiel could hardly hear himself over the gale; the back patio doors slammed back on their hinges again.  
  
Dean was on his feet, scanning their surroundings. “She’s still alive,” he said, reaching out to grab Castiel’s hand. Metal dug into his palm, the smooth shape of the Impala’s key. “I’ve gotta stay, protect her, keep it busy—take the car, find Bobby—”  
  
“Dean—”  
  
“Go!” Dean roared, and with a last squeeze, closed Castiel’s fingers around the keys and pushed him toward the open door. The spirit was reforming again, at the top of the stairs this time, and Dean turned away, shotgun back at his shoulder. “Take care of the bones, you’ve got the name! Come on, you son of a bitch,” Dean shouted, and Castiel ran, though his instincts told him otherwise; impossibly, unbelievably, he heard Dean laugh as the shotgun went off, felt the surge of adrenaline, the _relish_ that poured through the bond. “Come and get me!” Dean shouted behind him, and the house blew shut as soon as he was out.  
  
Breathing hard—but naturally, his lungs working in rhythmic, half-familiar bursts—he sprinted for the Impala in the driveway, threw himself into the driver’s side, and started the engine, but just as he was about to back out, someone rapped on the window.  
  
“Cas?” Bobby asked, a look of concern on his face as Castiel jumped and then relaxed in relief. “Everything okay?”  
  
He put the Impala back in park and opened the door. “Stewart Harris,” he said, his voice breathless. “The spirit’s name is Stewart Harris. Dean’s holding him off inside—we need to—”  
  
“I know,” Bobby reassured him, holding out a hand to pull him out of the car; his other hand was tight on two shovels. “His bones are on this property, heard it from a guy in town. Come on.”  
  
They jogged around the back of the still-creaking A-frame toward the lake, Castiel’s heart pounding in his throat; he could still feel Dean, bursts of adrenaline echoing through their bond, the sudden movement as he whirled to face the spirit again and again, and kept his focus tight on the bond while his eyes scanned for a marker, any indication of a grave—  
  
“Here!” Bobby called, ten yards away, already breaking through the soft dirt near the lakeshore. When Castiel reached him, Bobby handed him a shovel. “Better hope it’s a shallow grave,” Bobby said, and they dug.  
  
It took a few strokes for Castiel to get the movement down right, all the while driven by anxiety, half a mind focused on Dean’s ongoing fight inside; the spirit would quiet, back away for a few minutes before mounting a new attack, or before Dean sought it out to take the offensive. Castiel understood that he was trying to keep it busy, both away from the crippled real estate agent and from the sight of its remains, to give Castiel and Bobby a clear shot at destroying it, but he flinched at Dean’s brashness, and understood for the first time the terror of hunting when human, when there was no angel waiting to heal all wounds.  
  
But Dean, impossibly, wasn’t afraid, and for the first time, Castiel understood: Dean _loved_ hunting—in a perverse, terrible way, perhaps, but Castiel could feel his blood singing with exhilaration and understood that hunting was in Dean’s bones, deep in his essence, and it brought him pleasure even when it brought him pain; even when the spirit threw him back into the stairs and the wood bruised hard into his lower back, there was still a grin locked into his teeth as he got up and fired again.  
  
After fifteen minutes of hard digging, Bobby’s shovel struck wood. “Jackpot,” he muttered, and they worked to uncover the coffin, scraping dirt away until they could open the cover, exposing shrunken flesh stretched over bone. Castiel edged back as Bobby poured lighter fluid and salt over the remains, digging a book of matches out of his pocket with blistered fingers; he lit one as soon as Bobby nodded. He dropped it into the grave, and it caught, burning orange and then blue, the flames licking up as a final shriek whistled from the A-frame, and then all was silent.  
  
He smiled shakily, feeling Dean safe in the distance, and looked up to thank Bobby, only to find that the old hunter had moved out of his line of sight. “Bobby?” he called, confused.  
  
It was sudden, almost instantaneous: the back of his head burst with pain, and the world rushed away in a wave of light and sound, thrusting him into darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief sex scene right smack in the middle of this chapter.


	15. Hollow Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “At ease, soldier. I’m only here to stall you, not kill you. Got someone else for that job.”

Dean hadn’t been on a run-for-your-life, salt-rounds-blazing, adrenaline-rush kind of hunt in way too long.

The hunting he’d done with Sam—with the thing that wasn’t Sam—before shit hit the fan with the renewed Apocalypse hadn’t counted; he’d spent those trips wound so tight about his brother that there was no enjoyment in it, no relish in the kill, and it was all pouring out of him now, pent up in months away, clawing its way out from beneath the weeks spent playing house with Lisa and Ben, the months burned waging a war. There was nothing like this. It was better than Hell, purer than the sick pleasure he’d taken from picking up torture, almost cleansing in its dizzying rush of life-and-death. Cas was anxious in the distance, his fingers blistering as he dug up the spirit’s grave, but Dean—Dean was _free_.

The chase was over, the spirit cornered, and he fell panting back to the ground as it burned up in front of him, dissolving in a final angry howl. He gave a short, breathless laugh and scooted toward the realtor, ignoring the pain in his lower back. She was still out cold, but her pulse was strong under his fingers, and he was sure she’d make a full recovery. He laid back on the hardwood floor, catching his breath, still grinning mindlessly, and then felt Cas’s sudden burst of confusion, the rush of panic, just before pain exploded at the back of his skull.

Dean tried to get up but lurched to the side; the pain was dizzying, even if it was at the other end of a dulled connection, enough to completely throw his balance. “Dammit,” he muttered, clawing at the banister to try and haul himself up. “Thought I had more time.”

Cas was out cold; he could feel the buzz of detached consciousness flickering at the other end of the tether that he’d grown so accustomed to, and he knew that something had gone wrong, sooner than he’d thought it would. Hand shaking, he dug into his pocket for his cell phone.

“Hold it right there, Dean.”

The voice came from behind him, and his shotgun was on the ground, useless; cautious, his head still throbbing, he turned, looking over the prone body of the realtor.

Crowley cocked his head to the side, listening. Dean felt, rather than heard, Cas’s body being dragged around the house, heels scraping against the ground, shoulders being yanked, lugged toward the front. Either Bobby had been eliminated and left in the backyard, or...

“At ease, soldier,” the demon said, his eyes flashing briefly red. “I’m only here to stall you, not kill you. Got someone else for that job.”

“Stall me,” Dean repeated, now actively prying at Cas’s flickering consciousness, trying to wake him up. _Cas_ , he thought, though it made him go nearly cross-eyed from the effort; it wasn’t as easy to communicate directly between them anymore, not since the angel had Fallen. _Cas, buddy, wake up. We’ve got a situation._

“Yes,” Crowley said idly, watching Dean carefully. “You’re allowed to interfere, of course, but not right now.”

“This isn’t your usual business model,” Dean pointed out, his teeth gritted. “We had a deal, Crowley.”

“We did. Until you started planning your clever little double-cross. Offering me up as bait to the hordes of Hell?” Crowley scoffed, rolling his eyes. “That’s just _rude_ , Dean.”

Dean didn’t pause to consider who could have told him, how he could have known; he already knew, had known it for weeks as it curdled in his gut, reminded him late at night that there was a serial killer upstairs, and he would only tolerate them for so long.

“You’ve been planning this for longer than that,” he gritted out. Beyond the glass front door, he saw Bobby pass, back to the road, dragging Cas’s slumped body toward the behind the Impala. His stomach twisted at the visual confirmation. It didn’t move like Bobby; it moved like it was just _wearing_ a body, forcing it to walk, to drag, to lift Cas into the back of the car.

Crowley shrugged. “You say tomato, I say tomahto.”

“What’d you offer him?” Dean interrupted, fists clenched at his side. “What the fuck did you have that he wanted so badly?”

“Easy,” he said. “Should’ve seen it coming, Dean. You want your brother back, but Sam doesn’t want his soul.” Crowley smiled, a quick tick up of his lips, genuine pleasure in his eyes. “Smart moose. Souls are messy, ugly things, even before they’ve been tossed to rabid archangels. All I had to give him was a guarantee—a guarantee that his mutilated soul wouldn’t see the light of day, let alone worm its way back inside him.”

“You can’t do that,” Dean said, his mouth going dry; the back of his skull throbbed a little harder.

Crowley shrugged, examining his fingernails. Outside, Bobby’s engine gurgled to life. “He does a little favor for me, I do a little favor for him. That’s how deals work, Dean. You don’t hold someone’s _bones_ hostage. I wish I could be there,” he added, regret curdling his tone. “Really, I do, but that brother of yours is a loose canon. Wouldn’t want to be caught in the line of fire.”

“Where?” Dean demanded, taking an involuntary step forward. The car backed out of the driveway; the sound of the engine faded behind him. They were headed north. “Where are you sending him?”

Crowley slipped a small card from his pocket, gave it a cursory glance, and held it out in the space between them, over the unconscious realtor. Dean moved to snatch it from his hand, but Crowley caught his wrist and dragged him down, his hold impossibly strong.

“This’ll have to be good enough,” he commented, searching Dean’s face as though drinking it in. “Panic, crushing despair—it’s a good look for you, Dean.”

“I will hunt you down,” Dean snarled back, wrenching away from Crowley’s gasp with the card in hand. “You son of a bitch, I’ll kill you for this.”

Crowley smirked. “God, I hope you try.”

He vanished, and Dean was running, snagging his shotgun on the way out, frantically dialing 911 to summon an ambulance for the realtor. The roar of Bobby’s engine had already faded, and he would have to waste a few long minutes trying to hotwire the Impala—but when he wrenched the door open, the keys were still in the ignition. Cas had made it to the car before Bobby arrived.

He hurriedly gave the address to the dispatcher and hung up, turning the keys; the Impala roared to life around him. “Okay,” he muttered, staring at the card; he’d seen the intersection on the outskirts of Worthington, vaguely remembered the abandoned old warehouse set back from the road. “Okay,” he muttered again, and backed out into the road.

He didn’t know how much time he had, but guessed that Sam was waiting on him to show up, that that had been part of the deal. His hands tightened to the point of pain on the wheel, the scenery blurring around him as he tried to focus on Cas, the drifting consciousness beginning to flicker with awareness at the back of his mind. If he could just get to them before they made that warehouse—if he could confront the demon before it ever made it to Sam—

But even as he ran a red light outside of town, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. Cas was waking up, now, the pounding in the back of his head nearly blinding him with pain; Dean thought he must have been hit with a shovel, for it to hurt so bad. As his eyes opened, the first thing he did was relay blurred impression after impression to Dean: the back of Bobby’s head, a glimpse through the windshield at the ramshackle warehouse, the feeling of rope digging into his wrists, cutting off circulation, the only restraints that the demon had had time for before speeding away. The demon was dragging Cas out of the car, and Cas was struggling, kicking and lashing out as well as he could, but the demon was stronger, and Dean pulled into the lot just as the door to the warehouse slammed shut on them.

He didn’t have time to think, to prepare; he reached out through the bond, tried to soothe Cas as he struggled, and loaded his handgun, feeling it all the while as Cas passed on images: his first glimpse of Sam’s emotionless features, his back screaming in protest as he was pushed down and tied to an old office chair. Dean opened the door of the Impala just as Sam lured the demon into a hidden Devil’s Trap and exorcised it, its screams tearing from Cas to him, and Bobby slumped to the ground, blood trickling from his nose into his beard.

Dean walked, numb, to the warehouse door, lifted his gun, nudged it open, his mind full of the pictures that Cas was feeding him even as he scanned his own surroundings twenty feet away. He pressed back against the connection, and then he was in the room, the muzzle of his gun trained on Sam. Cas’s eyes were huge and barely focused, a rim of blue around pupils dilated in fear, his arms bound around the back of the chair. Sam was at ease beside him, a gun to Cas’s temple, his features hard.

 _Sam was all in white, his hair pristine like it never was in life, surrounded by a garden of pungent, crimson roses. “Whatever you do,” Lucifer said, his voice soft, almost gentle, a terrible caress, “you will always end up_... _here.”_

 

 

“Sam,” Dean said, but his eyes were fixed on Castiel. “Let’s talk about this, huh?”

Sam didn’t particularly want to kill Castiel; he didn’t feel anything specific about the act. He only wanted the end result, the guarantee that he would stay as he was, because he knew better than Bobby, better than Castiel, better than Dean: he remembered Lucifer, his fierce and all-consuming wrath, his lust for revenge, and knew that the soul left behind with the Fallen archangel would kill him. Slowly. Painfully. The thing he had forgotten in the Pit was all that stood between him and a tortured, caged animal, something feral and mindless—his brain would become a battleground, and after days, or weeks, or maybe months of excruciating pain, he would die, consumed by a Hell that he currently didn’t remember.

He preferred it that way.

“Put the gun down,” he said calmly, “and we’ll talk.”

Dean’s green eyes scanned up from Castiel’s face to focus on Sam; his lip quirked, but it was more a spasm than a smirk, gone as soon as it appeared. “You first,” he invited, moving forward another few steps. “Out of the two of us, I think I’m a little more trustworthy right now.”

Sam shrugged and lowered his gun to point at the ground. He sincerely doubted that Dean would be able to bring himself to kill his own brother, even now; on the off chance that he had it in him, Sam’s reflexes were still better, and he didn’t have to worry about protecting Castiel. Dean did, was already edging a little closer to the captive angel, even if his gun was trained on the floor instead of at Sam, desperate to make sure that Castiel was safe, and that would put Sam at an advantage if it came to a fight.

“How’s Bobby?” Dean gritted out. His anxiety was palpable; Sam could nearly taste it, heavy and static in the room around them.

Sam spared a glance behind him at the figure slumped on the ground. “Fine. Just unconscious. He’s not part of this—just a convenient body to steal, at the time.”

“Sammy,” Dean said. Sam remembered how that pleading tone—God, it was like begging—had affected him in the past: it had twisted his stomach, wrenched his heart in his chest, even brought tears to his eyes, but his eyes were dry now, his pulse quiet and steady. “Listen to me. Please. You don’t have to do this. You don’t even know if Crowley can make it happen.”

“He doesn’t renege on his deals,” Sam replied. Dean had stopped moving, but he was looking at Castiel again; he was trying, hard, to keep a straight face, but Sam could still see the panic in his eyes, unrelenting. “It can be done.”

“And then what?” Dean barked. “Did you expect to walk out of here, no soul, no consequences?”

“Dean,” Sam said, trying to be gentle. “Dad told you you’d have to kill me if you couldn’t save me. I was guzzling demon blood, and you couldn’t kill me. I raised Lucifer, and you _still_ didn’t kill me. Maybe you’ll hunt me down, try to force my soul back in me, which, truthfully, _could_ kill me—but you can’t do it yourself, Dean. Think about it. Could you put a gun to my head, right now, and put a bullet in my brain, after doing nothing but save my ass for twenty-seven years?”

Dean was struggling, his gun loose in his grasp; Sam saw his throat bob as he swallowed, trying to retain his composure. “I’ll stop trying,” Dean croaked, his gaze fixed on Sam now. “I swear to you, I’ll stop trying to get your soul back. You don’t want it, fine. I’ll leave it alone. Just let him go.”

“How can you promise me that?” Sam asked, frowning. “I know you, Dean. I know you think leaving me like this is worse than seeing me dead. What makes you think I can trust you?”

“Let Cas and Bobby go,” Dean begged, his voice raw. “And you can kill me.”

“Dean,” Castiel choked out, the first word he’d uttered since he’d entered the warehouse—and wasn’t that fitting, Sam mused. It was always _Dean_. The end-all, be-all for a Fallen angel, his blue eyes fixed on Dean’s face, even though Dean only had eyes for Sam; in this moment, there was no room for the wayward son of Heaven.

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean said, and his voice was shaking now, a waver that usually meant Armageddon was nigh, and for him, maybe it was: the ultimate failure, his family torn asunder around him, a gun to his head to ease the pain. It was tragically poetic, Sam thought, the kind of story his Stanford professors would have lapped up with greed. “Let them go,” Dean repeated. “You know Bobby won’t try as hard. He doesn’t have the stake in your soul that I do. And Cas’ll do whatever I say. And I’m sayin’ you shouldn’t look,” he said, with only a glance for the former angel. “Don’t try. Just let him go.”

Sam didn’t see what difference it made; Crowley had only wanted to see the pair of them suffer, and if it was Cas left to live instead of Dean, it would make no difference. It would, perhaps, be worse for Cas, after all, whose first friend in this world had been Dean. Dean would always be left with the memory of his brother, who came first, before the pain of losing his best friend.

“If you’d rather do it that way,” Sam said, because he should try to have some compassion for Dean, he thought; Dean, his brother, who had only been trying to do what was right, in his eternally misguided way. If there was room to maneuver in this matter, he could give Dean what he wanted, and if he was Dean, he would want this, too: the end. Dean had done nothing but suffer, not just for the last two years, but for his entire life. He’d chased revenge like a junkie craving a fix, been carved into a soldier before he could think for himself, acted on the most basic programming his whole life: protect the mission. Protect Sam. If he failed, he had no purpose, no pleasure—he was nothing.

And he’d failed, truly failed, and that was why he stank of desperation now, because there was no redemption for the broken guardian of a dead charge.

Sam pitied him. Dean was nothing more than an animal dying to be put out of his misery.

Sam could give him that much.

 

 

Castiel’s head ached like someone had attempted to split it open, and, if he thought about it, someone had. He was surprised that the shovel had done no more than break skin, bruise him, and knock him out, but he thought that a split skull had to feel even more painful than this. Dean reassured him, with the quiet conveyance of memory, that he’d have been out a lot longer if the bone was cracked; Dean remembered the blinding pain of opening his head against a brick wall when he was sixteen, of a hospital visit that lasted a week instead of a night, barely conscious all the while.

That was the only good news, from where Castiel sat, head aching, blood throbbing in his blistered fingers, arms prickling where the circulation had weakened at the onslaught of the coarse ropes that bound him. It was hard to work with his hands behind his back, only half of the feeling there for him to fumble with, struggling to work his wrists out of the ropes. The demon’s knots were weaker than Sam’s; his chest and shoulders were tight to the back of the chair, but Sam would release those knots first when he eventually freed Castiel.

“I would,” Dean said gruffly. “Cas can get Bobby out of here, and then I’m all yours.”

Sam lifted his gun again, holding it ready as he came close to Castiel. He stopped moving his hands; the ropes were loose enough now. “How do I know that he won’t attack me the instant I untie the ropes?” Sam asked, questioning rather than accusatory.

“He won’t,” Dean said harshly. “Your demon gave him a concussion. It’s gonna take everything he’s got just to drag Bobby out of here; he’s not up for a suicide mission.”

Sam gave an apologetic smile, touching the back of Castiel’s head. It came away red, sticky with congealing blood. “I’m sorry about that,” he told Castiel, as he worked, one-handed, at untying the knot closest to him. The ropes slipped loose, and Castiel braced himself, waiting for Dean’s signal, hoping he would be able to move in time, hoping he would be capable of moving at all.

Before Sam could reach for the loosened ropes at his wrists, Dean’s low thrum of adrenaline burst into full-fledged attack, and Cas kicked back, directly into Sam’s shin, making him stagger. He surged up, stumbled, twisted his hands free and used his falling momentum to barrel into Sam, who was already straightening up, his gun swinging around to fire. Castiel landed heavily, half on Sam, one knee smashing to the concrete, a bolt of pain joining the throbbing in his head. He heard Dean shouting at him to get clear, to _move_ , but Sam was already wrenching beneath him, and once, Castiel had been as tall as the Chrysler building, but now, Sam dwarfed him in size and strength. The man beneath him heaved up, and Castiel was knocked to the side, rolling across the floor toward Bobby.

“Sam,” Dean was shouting. “Sam, no, don’t—!”

Castiel tried to get his leg beneath him, but his knee gave out, crumpling as he scrambled for purchase, and then there was a shot, a heavy thump, and everything was still.

He rolled over, panting heavily, and saw Sam’s hazel eyes, wide-open and empty beneath the dark hole in his forehead, his limbs at awkward angles where he’d fallen, and Castiel dragged himself back, instinctively shuddering away from the body. Dean’s gun clattered to the ground, loud and metallic in the silence, and then his footsteps, heavy, paced toward Castiel. He kept backing away, but couldn’t stop looking at Sam, gaze fixed forever on nothing, blood pooling on the concrete beneath his head.

Then Dean blocked his view, fell to his knees in front of Castiel and pulled him into a crushing embrace. He had to work to breathe, his lungs compressed by the strength of Dean’s grip. “You dumb son of a bitch,” Dean muttered into his hair, his voice shaking. “You were supposed to run, let me try to take him—”

“I was closer,” Castiel said hoarsely, and let himself be crushed, drowned, in Dean’s fierce warmth. “I thought we had a better chance—if I tried—”

“He would have killed you,” Dean said, his hands biting into Castiel’s shoulders as he pulled back. His green eyes were glassy, his voice tight, his features twisted with agony. “He was going to kill you, Cas, and I couldn’t let him—”

Dean broke there; his shoulders slumped, a sob caught in his throat, and Castiel pulled him back, let Dean press his face into his shoulder and shake. The torrent of misery poured through their open connection, and Castiel weathered it, let it wash through him as it tore Dean open, flayed him raw. Over the hunter’s shoulder, he stared at the body, numb, horrified.

“You shouldn’t have,” Castiel whispered. “You should have let him kill me.”

“That wasn’t my brother,” Dean croaked into his shoulder. “Sam’s gone, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t lose you, Cas. I couldn’t lose you, too. You’re all I’ve got left. The only good thing I’ve got left.”

Castiel’s sinuses burned with a peculiar grief, and Dean stayed wrapped around him, clinging to Castiel as though he was in danger of evaporating. Clinically, he thought it was shock that kept him frozen long after his muscles had gone numb, long after the pain in his head and knee and shoulders all bled together into one massive, insignificant ache. Dean’s pain didn’t lessen, didn’t abate, but slowly he stopped shaking, went still against Castiel’s shoulder. They stayed there, huddled together on the concrete floor, stiff and aching, long after the sun had dipped below the warehouse windows, and Dean didn’t once look at Sam.

 

 

Bobby Singer had two sons, because family didn’t end in blood, and they were the stuff of legend. Heroes. They’d had a dark life, a terrible life—a hunter’s life, dogged by tragedy, alcoholism, a thirst for revenge that could never quite be quenched—and they didn’t even get peace in this. In death.

He’d woken up on a concrete floor, cold and aching, with Sam’s body at his feet and a hole bloody in his head; he’d turned toward the displacement of ambient noise and not two feet to his left, there was Dean, buried in Cas’s shoulder, his gun shining bright a few feet away. And Cas’s blue eyes, curiously blank, his features still. He didn’t move, even as Bobby slowly sat up; his gaze was fixed on Sam’s open hazel eyes. Bobby knew shock when he saw it.

“Come on,” he said through the blood in his mouth. “We’ve gotta move the body.”

Cas’s head twitched, just enough for his gaze to move to Bobby, and he nodded, a barely-perceptible jerk of his chin.

“Dean,” he said softly, and the only Winchester left pulled back, let go of Cas. Bobby wondered how long he’d knelt there, arms tangled around the Fallen angel. He didn’t look at the body, and in the end, it was Bobby and Cas that moved it, Cas’s hands taking the feet, Bobby taking the shoulders.

When Bobby nodded toward his car, though, Dean shook his head, a quick jerk. He nudged Bobby aside, ignored the blood that would get all over the back of the Impala, and carried Sam the rest of the way with Cas, arranging him almost gently in the backseat.

Cas touched Dean’s temple—lightly, the way he’d done as an angel—and turned to Bobby, but even though his mouth opened, no sound came out. After a moment, he shut his jaw, ducking his head to the ground. Dean stood still beside him, his features slack, expressionless.

“Follow me back to the house,” Bobby said, and Cas nodded. Dean shuffled to the passenger’s side of the Impala and got in, and Cas ducked into the driver’s side without saying a word.

Bobby had a pyre out back, in the thick of the woods, and he thought about it as he checked the rearview mirror, making sure the Impala was still behind him. The headlights shielded its passengers from view, but its course was steady, and he was glad it was Cas at the wheel and not Dean. The tattoo on his arm burned, and he thought about getting it in a better location next time, one a little more hidden from view, but he knew that it wouldn’t have mattered. If they wanted in, they’d get in.

Bobby hated demons.

They were worse than any monster, any spirit, even witches; they had a habit of taking you by surprise because they blended in so damn well, shove you into an alley and burn a line into the anti-possession tattoo you’d had recarved into your arm after the _last_ incident. It was always him. Sam and Dean, demons didn’t bother with these days, didn’t try to crawl inside them at the slightest provocation, even though it was just as easy to burn open _their_ tattoos.

The thing hadn’t needed to bother with Sam, anyway. He’d had a demon inside him all his own, and they’d all just been too determined not to see it, to live with a time bomb and hope it didn’t go off.

He’d rather have spared Dean this part. The guilt. The grief.

Cas followed him to the back of the lot, parked the Impala when Bobby turned his headlights off, and Dean got out first. He was shaking now, a visible tremor that Bobby could see from fifteen feet off, and his eyes were glazed.

He wished he’d taken his chance when he had it, the instant the shell of Sam walked back into his house and tried to fill the void in their midst. He wished he’d taken it. Spared Dean some part of the guilt, some portion of the blame—not all of it; Dean Winchester blamed himself for every damn thing. He always found a way. But some. He could’ve eased the burden, if he’d taken the chance.

Cas staggered as he stepped out of the driver’s side, leaned back against the Impala heavily. That was it, literally the _only_ thing that could snap Dean back to himself; he strode around the hood and gripped Cas’s jaw in his hand, turned his head to the side to get a better look at the wound on the back. “You’ve got a concussion,” Dean muttered.

“It can wait,” Cas replied, closing his eyes. “It can wait one more hour.”

Dean frowned at him, but didn’t argue; Bobby guessed that their freaky shared consciousness was enough to reassure Dean that it wasn’t life-threatening, because Bobby knew—just by the way Dean looked at the angel, the way he’d looked at him for what felt like years—that Dean wouldn’t let it go otherwise, would put off burning his brother if Cas was in real danger. Sam was already dead, and Dean protected what he had left.

Bobby helped Dean carry Sam this time; Dean gently pushed Cas aside when he tried to help, as though he knew he wasn’t up for more heavy lifting. Dean took Sam’s shoulders again, his arms gently hooking beneath his brother’s limp body, and Bobby took the feet. The wound left a dark stain across the leather of the Impala, and Dean didn’t look at it. Cas stared at the wet gleam for a long moment before closing the door.

They moved slowly, without talking about it, circumventing rabbit holes and thick patches of weeds in the dark, until the sky was blotted out overhead by the trees. They didn’t stop to rest; Bobby didn’t think that Dean could. He didn’t look at the body he was carrying, his gaze half a step behind him to feel out any traps in the dark. Cas drifted behind, blue eyes dark, focused on nothing.

And Bobby looked at Sam, his second son; Sam, the man who’d been dead for months, and just hadn’t known it.

They reached the clearing with the pyre, and Dean let the body rest gently on the stack as he went about gathering wood. The clearing opened up above them, giving an uninhibited view of the stars, and Cas stared up at the sky while Dean and Bobby worked, utterly still. There was still angel in him, Bobby thought, the unnatural stiffness in his posture, as though he could stand there for hours, watching. Existing.

There was lighter fluid and salt in a box nearby, and Bobby got them out, handed the lighter fluid to Dean. His hands shook as he took it and tipped it over the pyre, over Sam. Bobby followed it up with salt and stood back as Dean let his lighter catch on the wood, and as the flames came to life, he saw Dean’s green eyes flick up to rest, just for an instant, on Sam’s face, just long enough to register the defeat. The failure.

Bobby had always hoped for oblivion, before the angels came. Somewhere dark and quiet, a place where he ceased to exist, where his life faded from memory. He wouldn’t get to have the good stuff, but at least he’d be wiped clean, a blank slate, done. But then Castiel had walked into a barn crowded with every anti-monster symbol Bobby knew, and oblivion slipped from his grasp. He’d never made a deal, but he knew where hunters went. They all had blood on their hands. Angels were unforgiving. Peace was not in the cards for them. He could see it in Dean’s face. Sam fell, and Dean followed him down, and even Castiel, Angel of the Lord, couldn’t keep his footing.

They were all just slouching toward Bethlehem, biding their time. Waiting for Hell to rise and swallow them whole.

Dean fell back, and Cas reached out a tentative arm, slid it gently around Dean’s waist. Dean, his eyes fixed on the flames, wrapped his arm around Cas’s shoulders in turn. Bobby stood silent at Dean’s side, and thought they should say something, anything—but Sam already felt long gone, far out of his grasp, and all he had were memories, images, feelings: Sam, forever in Dean’s shadow, a smile with dimples and a laugh that could fill up a room if it was wrenched out of him; Sam, the reluctant son, the bickering brother, the unwilling hunter; Sam, savior of a world who didn’t know him, with only an old drunk, a Fallen angel, and a devoted brother to call him _hero_.

Cas was the one who spoke, finally, gravel in his voice, and Dean turned his face into the angel’s dark hair at the sound, closing his eyes against tears. “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,” Cas murmured, and Dean’s shoulders heaved. “Till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”

Bobby Singer had one son.


	16. Whiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Must be fucking traumatic—barely just human, and he’s gotta take on all my crap, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnotes for warnings about this chapter.

Crowley’s bones were missing from the safe—the iron-wrought, salt-bathed, demon-warded safe—when Dean went looking for them.

He stood there for a long time, staring at nothing, and Bobby couldn’t tell if he was thinking or dissociating.

The first week was silence, a half-empty bottle of Jack, and Dean’s empty stare.

 

 

Bobby didn’t always see it, because Dean didn’t surface from the panic room often. Sometimes, though, he’d come up looking for food or coffee—or, more likely, more alcohol—and get too tired to go back downstairs. He’d sit down at the kitchen table, or on the couch, as if he never planned on getting up again, food abandoned, coffee half-drunk, the bottle never far from his fingertips. He didn’t blink enough, didn’t move enough, and unless Bobby listened closely, he might have assumed that Dean had ceased to breathe.

If he came up in the middle of the night, Cas followed him. Sometimes five, sometimes twenty minutes later, if he’d been deeply asleep enough, but that wasn’t often. Dean was mute on the outside, but even Bobby could hear his grief, a wordless howl that rattled the house day and night, festering behind that thousand-yard stare. And Cas was hearing it, like a stereo that he couldn’t turn off, so he followed Dean and sat with him, and sometimes he looked at the bottle of Jack with something like longing, but he didn’t reach for it.

Bobby heard them, Cas’s soft footfalls on the stairs at three in the morning, Dean’s staggering progress across the kitchen.

Sometimes, when he came down after the sun rose, they were asleep at the kitchen table, Dean’s cheek pressed into Cas’s hands, Cas slumped back against the chair, his eyelids twitching. He touched the back of Cas’s head, where Dean had stitched up the wound with a shaking hand, and Cas started awake like he’d been dreaming of Hell.

He probably was.

 

 

The second week, Dean woke up.

He drank more, but he stared less. Bobby recognized the look, because he finally had a _look_ , an expression that wasn’t just vacant; he hadn’t talked about everything that happened, that day that felt both so recent and so old, but there was one word at the top of a yellow legal pad, and it was always by his side. _CROWLEY_ , in all capital letters, and instead of staring into space, he stared at the name, the smallest of frowns turning down the corners of his mouth. It was revenge, and Dean was hungry for it.

Cas moved outside of Dean’s orbit, still trailing him like a shadow, but drifting away if he had a purpose. He made food; he drove the Impala into Sioux Falls for supplies; sometimes he went out into the salvage yard and didn’t come back until he was sweating, dirty, his hands blistered; sometimes he came back from a drive without anything to show for it at all, and Bobby wondered where he went on those outings, and why he never took Dean with him.

He never saw them speak, not once. The last time he’d heard Cas’s voice had been when Sam’s body burned, Dean just before that, when he’d pointed out Cas’s concussion. He didn’t know how well they could communicate without talking, but he assumed they did. He assumed they didn’t have a choice. That they were trading pain back and forth like kids playing a game of hot potato, or that maybe they were just amplifying it, forcing it to echo until it was a wave of grief that swept in and receded, unrelenting.

They didn’t look at one another often, but when they did, Bobby always felt like he was intruding.

The silence went on.

 

 

Seventeen days into the aftermath, someone knocked on Bobby’s front door.

Dean and Cas were sitting at the kitchen table, silent, but at the noise, they rose simultaneously, weapons appearing from their hiding places beneath belts and shirts. Bobby saw the flash of a silver blade at Cas’s hip, but he was holding a handgun instead, steady in his aim at the door. He was calm, almost serene, his blue eyes flat and expectant. Dean waved him closer to the door, and then fell back to the den. In the quiet that followed, Bobby heard his soft footsteps and the near-silent swish of blinds being flicked aside; he was checking that no one had approached the back door.

Bobby kept a hand on the gun in his own belt as he made for the front door. Cas was to the left, opposite the hinges, and his gaze flicked from Bobby to Dean as he returned, giving a quick shake of his head.

“No one,” Dean muttered, his voice hoarse with disuse.

Bobby turned the handle and opened the door.

Jody Mills was on his porch, frowning, her arms crossed over her chest.

Dean had snapped a flask of holy water straight into her face before Bobby could blink; she spluttered, and Cas offered her his knife, hilt first.

“Jesus, Bobby,” she said, water dripping down her face. “Is this really necessary?”

“Had some demon trouble lately,” Dean said, without even the hint of a smile. “Believe me, better safe than sorry.”

She grimaced, held out her arm, and nicked into her skin, drawing blood. “Satisfied?” she gritted out.

“Right,” Dean muttered. Cas took back his knife and nodded politely at Jody, as though he wasn’t sure what else to do. When Dean retreated to the kitchen table, Cas followed him.

“The Hell is going on here?” Jody demanded, her eyes drawn over his shoulder, to where Dean and Cas had reseated themselves. Dean’s head was in his hands, shoulders slumped; Bobby recognized his exhaustion, that it had taken everything he had left to get up and face a potential threat. Cas’s hand was on his wrist, fingertips light, as though seeking out Dean’s pulse. Dean didn’t move.

Bobby jerked his head toward the porch, and Jody stepped back. He followed her out, letting the door bang shut behind him. At a loss for anything else to do, he gestured toward the broken-down chairs a few feet away. Jody took a seat at the very edge of one, wiping the water from her face with her arm. She wasn’t in uniform, just boots and jeans and a plaid shirt, but she still had a gun at her hip.

“I’ve been calling you,” she said as he sat down in the other chair. The irritation had cleared from her expression; it was back to worry, a thin layer of fear. “It’s been days. I thought something might’ve happened.”

“Something did,” Bobby said. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen Jody, but even that didn’t give him much. She’d never met Castiel. He’d only mentioned angels and demons to her in passing, to explain the waves of weird that were bound to rise in the wake of an emerging Apocalypse. To warn her. She was still half a civilian, aware of the things that went bump in the night but not seeking them out. “Somethin’ happen in town?” he asked, because Jody hardly ever called him.

She waved that off. “Turned out to be nothing. Just me being paranoid.” She smiled thinly. “How bad?” she asked. There was dread in her voice.

“Nothin’ that’s gonna hurt anybody else,” Bobby muttered.

She hesitated, one more minute, and then asked softly, “Where’s Sam?”

Bobby cleared his throat. “Dead,” he said, maybe too bluntly.

She flinched in reaction, leaned back in her chair, and kicked her boots up on the old table. “You wanna tell me about it?”

It was a long story, but Bobby told it all, his voice aching after five minutes; he hadn’t spoken out loud in weeks. He told her about his soul, about Crowley, about Castiel, about Michael and Lucifer and the box that Sam had thrown himself into, about the Civil War that rose in Heaven in the aftermath, about Cas raising Sam from the dead without his soul, about the death of another archangel, about Cas Falling.

“He was an angel?” she said, a little awed. “I thought...he just looks like another hunter.”

“He is now,” Bobby said. “He’s full-on human. Got himself a soul, homegrown. Dean’s been teaching him how to be a hunter.”

“This is insane, Bobby,” Jody said, reaching out to cover his hand with hers. He almost flinched back, and she made a face like she knew. “Zombies, sure, but this...this is beyond you. This is beyond _humanity_.”

“Nothin’s beyond us,” Bobby replied. “Cas is...he’s Dean’s friend. If we’d stood aside, let it all happen, Cas would’ve died and we’d be lookin’ at the Apocalypse again. But we’re not a part of it anymore. There’s one archangel left, and lucky for us, he decided he was tired of impersonating a pagan deity. He’s got things under control upstairs.”

Jody teetered a moment on the brink of asking, but she seemed to decide that she didn’t want to know the details of _that_ particular story. “Which archangel?” she asked instead.

“Gabriel,” Bobby answered. “Just hope you don’t ever have to meet him. Pain in the ass.”

She laughed, strained, a heroic attempt at casualty. “Okay, then. So it’s back to your regularly scheduled programming? Ghosts, zombies? No more angels and demons?”

“Demons are still our jurisdiction,” he muttered. “I think Dean’s planning on going after Crowley.”

He told her about Cas’s first hunt, the demons that had jumped him in Sioux Falls, the warehouse where he’d woken up with Sam dead at his feet and Dean’s gun abandoned on the ground.

“They can just _do_ that?” she breathed, horrified.

“There’s ways to prevent it, but nothin’s foolproof. Me and the boys, we’ve had anti-possession tattoos for a few years. We’re hot on demon radar. They’re not our biggest fans.” He pulled up his sleeve and flipped up his forearm, showing her where the tattoo had been burned through. She stared, appalled. The scar from the burn was ugly. “They can be broken, if the demons are quick and know what to do, and these ones did.”

Bobby rolled his sleeve back down. “Dean must be heartbroken,” Jody murmured finally.

“Guess I wouldn’t know for sure. Hasn’t said a damn word in seventeen days—at least, not until you turned up. He might be communicating with Cas, but it sure as Hell ain’t out loud.”

Her hand was still on his, small and warm. It felt like comfort. Bobby didn’t know what to do with that, especially when her gaze turned back to him, soft. Worried.

“Bobby,” she said quietly. “I hate to say it, but you all look...terrible.” He laughed at that, a snort that more resembled a cough, and she frowned. “Have you been eating right? Sleeping?” 

“Don’t mother hen me,” Bobby groused. “I’m fine.”

“No, you aren’t. You’re all grieving. Who’s taking care of them? Who’s taking care of _you_?”

He didn’t really have an answer for that. They were hunters, and grief was not a luxury they had. They would weather it until they couldn’t anymore, and then they would go back to hunting. They lost people every month; when things were bad, sometimes, every week. _Not like this_ , he thought, unbidden. _It’s different when it’s one of your boys._

“Right.” Jody nodded, as though deciding something. She squeezed his hand and got up. “I’ll be back in an hour. With real food.”

“Jody,” he started, but she shook her head.

“Don’t argue.”

“ _I’m_ not arguing,” Bobby grumbled. “You’re gonna get a lot of resistance from Dean, though.”

Her jaw was set with grim determination. “Stubborn alcoholics are my specialty.” She smiled—a little sad—and trotted down the steps to her car. Bobby watched her go.

When he went back inside, Cas was gone. He heard gunshots in the distance.

“I think I’m killing him,” Dean said—not to Bobby, maybe, but out loud, at least. He stared at the puddle of Jack still pooling in the bottom of his glass. For the first time, Bobby noticed the deepened wrinkles at the corners of Dean’s eyes, a thread of silver in the hair at his temples. Had that happened in the last few weeks? Had it crept up in the last few years? Bobby still remembered Dean, the kid; sometimes he couldn’t see anything else, but now, he’d lost sight of that tough little boy whose eyes lit up whenever Bobby offered to play a game of catch with him. Before Sam had run away to Stanford. Before John sold his soul. Before angels and Armageddon and losing his brother for good.

“Wish I could just cut the goddamn connection,” Dean said, and swallowed down the last of the whiskey. “Must be fucking traumatic—barely just human, and he’s gotta take on all my crap, too.”

“Well,” Bobby said, harsher than he wanted to, but it was about time something was done, and Dean didn’t respond to much else. “Guess you’re just gonna have to deal with it, then.”

Dean looked up. He met Bobby’s gaze for the first time in weeks. His eyes were red-rimmed, a glaze of pain and whiskey, the whites bloodshot.

“Jody’s gonna be back in an hour with food,” Bobby continued. “I’d suggest you put down the bottle, go get your angel, and clean up.”

Dean only resisted for an instant, features contorting with something that was half-defense and half-rage, but then, with a nod of defeat, he pushed back from the table.

“You’d think you’d be more careful, Dean,” Bobby said quietly. “Few months ago, you were all up in arms about keepin’ Cas away from all this shit. How long you think he’ll last, gettin’ contact high through that mind mojo?”

Bobby hated the stricken look on Dean’s face—hated that he’d put it there, that he’d had to say it, but he left Dean to it and stamped upstairs to clean up, and tried not to feel too guilty. Dean needed the push—something, anything, to remind him that no matter how much pain he was in, he hadn’t lost everything with Sam, that he still had someone left. Someone he couldn’t afford to lose, too. Cas wasn’t Dean’s responsibility, but he could be affected by Dean, damaged by Dean, _destroyed_ by Dean, and Bobby knew it would be one more thing Dean would never forgive himself for if he let it happen.

Ten minutes later he heard the gunshots stop, and Bobby suddenly understood: Cas had only seen how _they_ —the most dysfunctional band of humans—handled grief. Pain. And he’d already picked up their coping mechanisms, had been breaking in the windows of old cars and driving blind and shooting at bottles for weeks while Dean did nothing but transmit, amplifying, probably, Cas’s own guilt, his own suffering, and having no outlet but what he’d learned from them, he’d channeled it all into what he knew.

They were piss-poor teachers.

 

 

Castiel liked Jody Mills.

When he came out of the bathroom, rubbing his hair dry with a towel, she was there with her arms elbow-deep in soapy dishwater, dark brown hair tucked behind her ears, and there was a scent drifting from the oven that made Castiel’s stomach growl. Dean brushed by him for his turn in the bathroom, a Doppler effect of pain rippling toward him and away, but he took Castiel’s towel to hang it up and touched him on the shoulder as he passed. And that was better, Castiel thought. It was _something_.

Castiel had learned over the last few weeks that he hated to be useless. He liked to be doing things, contributing; the longer he stood by, watching and listening to Dean suffer, unable to take action, the more on-edge he felt. Standing there watching the sheriff do dishes was intolerable to him. He joined her at the sink, taking up a towel to dry the plates she’d washed.

“I apologize for our inhospitable reception, earlier,” Castiel said tentatively, hoping she hadn’t taken offense.

She smiled at him. “Strange times. No hard feelings.”

There was something about her. Soft, worn down, but with a fierce undercurrent of strength. Castiel wondered if it was his residual Grace telling him these things about her, or if humans got feelings about people they didn’t know, too. Her presence was reassuring, warm--comforting.

“So, you’re the angel,” she said, handing him a glass--Dean’s, from the table. He glanced over his shoulder. The bottle of whiskey had vanished; he felt an odd surge of relief.

“Not anymore,” he replied quietly.

She was quiet after that, but not unpleasantly so. When they’d just finished, and Jody was wiping down the counters, Dean came out of the shower and leaned against the doorway to the kitchen. Castiel looked up. Dean’s darting eyes met his gaze and held there for a moment before they went to Jody.

“Anything I can help with?” he asked. His voice was a rasp. Castiel hadn’t heard him speak since Sam’s death, and it was no longer a sound he fully recognized.

“Just sit, Dean,” Jody invited, drying her hands on the towel. “We’ve got it.”

Dean didn’t argue. He’d gone through phases of exhaustion and adrenaline over the last two weeks, but the latter never lasted long. Every movement was painful, deliberate, with none of Dean’s natural energy. Castiel felt it now, as he roused himself enough to push away from the doorframe and cross the room to the table. When he reached his chair, he half-sat, half-fell into it. The timer went off behind Castiel, and Dean didn’t so much as blink.

He moved to the side, and Jody pulled an enormous dish covered with aluminum foil out of the oven. When she peeled it back, Castiel peered in intently. “It smells very good,” he commented, and Jody smiled at him again.

“Old family favorite.” Her lips formed around the word _family_ , and he saw a son, a husband. Both gone. He felt Dean twitch behind him, remembering. He was surprised that such a peripheral observation had reached Dean at all. “Chicken, rice, tomato soup, broccoli. Near-perfect nutritional value, and kids love it.”

“None of us are children,” Castiel pointed out mildly, though he thought that there might be a joke hidden there.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re grown men,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s the same thing.”

“Hey,” Bobby grumbled from the den. “We were doin’ fine.”

“Sure,” she replied easily. “C’mon, Singer. Get in here before the boys take your share.”

They ate in silence, but it wasn’t like the stifling, claustrophobic silence that had crowded the house for weeks; it wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t as toxic, either. Jody and Bobby made most of the conversation, for what little there was. Dean ate, at first reluctantly, but then with more enthusiasm as the taste of the food and the feeling of something solid in his stomach set in. He didn’t look at any of them, though. He’d had a hard time looking anyone in the face since they burned Sam.

Castiel helped Jody with the dishes left over from dinner, and then she and Bobby retreated to the den. Dean stayed at the table until Castiel touched his shoulder--tentative, questioning. Dean looked up at him, and the wave rushed in.

There wasn’t a thought left in Dean’s head--not a coherent one. It reminded Castiel of the nightmares about Hell, but the sheer heat of it was a dozen times worse, everything amplified to a ceaseless scream of agony. He didn’t always feel the full force of it--he knew that Dean was trying, as best he could, to shield him from the war raging in his head--but when Dean looked at him, whatever defenses he had to hold back the tidal wave crumbled.

“Perhaps we should sleep,” Castiel suggested quietly.

Dean ducked his head and nodded, pushing back from the table. Castiel felt Jody’s eyes on the back of his neck as they left the kitchen, walked slowly down the steps to the panic room. It had become a ritual, one that he dreaded every night: lying still beside Dean, staying awake as long as he could; waking up to find him gone; going in search of him upstairs, to make sure he was safe. He set his gun and knife down, then pulled off his jeans and left them draped over the back of the chair.

He always chose the side closest to the wall. Dean could move freely that way.

He missed Dean, an ache in his chest that never went away, even though the hunter was rarely further than a few feet from him. But Dean--the being he thought of as _his_ Dean--had receded back, back beneath the onslaught of despair boiling the surface of his mind. His Dean was lost in dreams of Hell all tangled up with dreams of Sam, the ones that echoed to Castiel at the rare moments that they slept at the same time. His Dean was drowning, and he had no idea what to do to pull him out, evict him from his nightmares. The days when he could guarantee Dean a dreamless sleep with just a touch were long gone.

Dean followed him into bed not long after, the mattress dipping with his weight. Castiel’s back and shoulders ached. He tried not to focus on it; intentionally or not, some small part of what he felt always transferred to Dean, and Dean was already suffering enough.

Eventually, Castiel dropped off. He never remembered it happening; it was a very disconcerting aspect of sleeping. He wasn’t sure he would ever become accustomed to it. When he woke again, somewhat disoriented, he rolled to his side, planning to go in search of Dean, only to find him still in bed.

For a moment, relief washed over him, but then he realized that Dean was not sleeping peacefully. He was shaking, a fine tremble all over his body, his hands clenched deep in the sheets, his eyes tightly closed, but he was awake; Castiel could feel the buzz of consciousness, tightly-wound, extremely uncomfortable.

“Dean,” Castiel said softly, worried. “Are you alright?”

For a long moment Dean didn’t respond, and Castiel started to think that he should get Bobby--maybe Jody, if she was still here--because Dean was clearly ill. Castiel could feel the heat, humid and dense, radiating from the man beside him. Just when he was about to get up, though, Dean spoke through clenched teeth.

“Not the best I’ve ever been,” he gritted out. “It’s been over six hours since I had a drink.”

Castiel swallowed, started, “I can get you--”

“ _No_.” Dean’s eyes snapped open; his hand shot out to clench down on Castiel’s wrist. “I’m withdrawing. I don’t want to start over.”

Castiel sank back into the sheets, and slowly twisted his hand so that Dean was clutching his fingers rather than his wrist. Now that he’d latched on, he seemed incapable of letting go.

“From what I understand,” Castiel said cautiously, “this can be very painful.”

The ghost of a smile touched Dean’s lips. It had been so long since his expression had shifted one way or another that Castiel stared at it, disbelieving. “Bring it on,” Dean said. Quietly. Determined.

“Why--”

Before he could get another word out, he was sideswiped by memories: his own face, twisting in a grin he didn’t recognize; shaking hands uncapping pill bottles; the glazed look in his blue eyes that made something in Dean’s chest twist in agony. It was strong enough, for a moment, to overwhelm his grief over Sam; it seemed more urgent, more present, and sharper, tangled up in guilt and fear.

“I’m not gonna let that happen to you,” Dean said, his teeth clenched again. “And I’m sure as Hell not gonna _push_ you into it.”

“Dean--”

“No,” Dean snarled, his eyes drifting back to the ceiling. “This is _not up for discussion_.”

“It’s dangerous,” Castiel pointed out, perhaps needlessly. “The level of dependence you’ve built up--we should consult a professional.”

Dean unclenched his other hand from the sheets and groped blindly beneath the bed. “This should do the trick,” he said, tossing a bottle of pills to Castiel.

He examined the label. “Thiamine.”

“Once a day.” Dean grimaced. “Should help. Or Bobby says so, anyway.”

Castiel leaned carefully over Dean to return the pills to the floor. “You talked to Bobby about this?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, and then, very abruptly, his free hand reached up, knotted in Castiel’s hair, and pulled him down.

They had barely looked at one another in weeks, let alone spoke, or touched; Dean’s mouth crashed to his with a blunt force that stunned him, left him reeling. The horror of Dean’s suffering momentarily washed out, was shoved down and replaced by a sudden hum of bliss, of _pleasure_ , and when he pulled back to meet Castiel’s shocked gaze, his mind stayed quiet for a long moment.

“I don’t want Bobby dealing with me anymore,” Dean said finally. “We’re all makin’ each other worse.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “We can leave, if you want. In the morning.”

Dean smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes; it was obligatory at best, but it was something. “Yeah, Cas,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Castiel cautiously pressed a kiss to Dean’s feverish forehead. Dean’s eyes fell closed, and he let out a soft sigh of something like relief, a breath that touched Castiel’s throat, tickling his skin.

“Try to sleep,” Castiel murmured. “Can I get you anything?”

Dean shrugged. “Some water?”

Castiel nodded, slipped out of bed over Dean’s feet, and padded upstairs. There was a rustle in the den as he crossed the kitchen and pulled a glass down from the cabinet, and then Jody yawned behind him.

“Everything okay, Castiel?”

He turned; she had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, hair mussed. She must have been sleeping on the couch.

“Fine,” he said, holding up the glass of water. “Dean wanted this. You can call me Cas,” he added. “Everyone does.”

“Your name is too pretty to waste,” she said drowsily, joining him at the sink to get her own glass.

“Are you alright?” he asked in return.

She shrugged. “Was too tired to head home, decided to crash on the couch.” She leaned back against the counter beside him. He sipped the water; he would fill it again before he returned to Dean. “Is Dean...” She trailed off, wrapping the blanket a little more tightly around her. “Is he okay?” she asked finally.

“He’s better,” Castiel said. “He’s talking. I haven’t heard him speak in seventeen days.”

She looked at him curiously. “But?”

Castiel looked down at the water. “He’s decided to stop drinking.”

“That’s gonna be hard,” she commented. No anxious pause, no breath of sympathy--Jody was straightforward, and Castiel was grateful for it. It was a method of communication he was more familiar with. “Bottles I’ve seen laying around this place,” she continued, frowning. “Your boy’s not a light drinker.”

“My warnings that it would be painful and dangerous did not have much of an effect.” He smiled ruefully. “They never really do.”

Jody smiled back. “Sounds like it’s not your first rodeo.”

Castiel’s smile fell away in the face of confusion. “I’m sorry,” he said, a little lamely. “I don’t understand that reference.”

She laughed, a soft, surprised sound. “It’s not the first time he hasn’t listened to you,” she clarified.

“Oh,” Castiel said, nodding. “Yes. Dean and I are old friends.” He paused, wondering if he should tell her--wondering if he should tell _someone_. “He wants to leave in the morning,” he said, deciding that he should.

Jody studied him, her expression serious now, thoughtful. “You up for that?” There was a strange measure of compassion in her tone. She barely knew him, but her concern was sincere. This was a human he’d fought for, Fallen for; he warmed at the thought that such kind examples existed. “Taking care of him’s gonna be rough,” she added, as though to warn him. “You’re grieving, too, Castiel.”

“I’ll manage,” Castiel said. He’d done it long enough, after all, had been Dean’s guardian for years, even if he hadn’t been assigned that role. Even if he no longer had angelic powers, he could take care of Dean. This was a human problem. One that he could fix.

He glanced sideways at Jody. “Can I ask you a favor?”

Surprise darted across her features. “Me?”

“Will you watch over Bobby?” He thought the phrasing was probably wrong, but he didn’t know how else to ask. “When we’re gone? He’s perfectly capable, of course. I’m not suggesting that. But he’s suffering, too. Sam was like a son to him.”

Jody lifted a hand to squeeze his arm, suddenly sympathetic. “Nobody blames you, you know. You did your best, Castiel.”

They were silent a long moment, breathing. Listening. Bobby snored from upstairs, and Castiel could feel Dean, drifting on the edge of sleep, too uncomfortable and anxious to actually lose consciousness, too exhausted to stay awake. The guilt surged in, drifted out, but it was Castiel’s own now, not Dean’s. Survivor’s guilt, he thought, but it didn’t feel nearly so petty as that: it felt crippling, vast and dark, and horribly endless.

“I’ll watch out for Bobby,” she said quietly. “You just take care of Dean.”

Before the sun rose, their duffel bags were packed and loaded into the Impala. Dean curled into the passenger seat, against the door, eyes tightly shut in the predawn light, grimacing against a headache, a fresh shirt already soaked in sweat around the neckline. Castiel had second thoughts about the wisdom of acceleration with such symptoms, but Dean just muttered, perfectly serious, “Baby cures everything. You’ll see.”

They didn’t say goodbye. Castiel left a note beneath a cup of coffee on the kitchen table for Bobby, explaining that they’d found a case, but would be reachable by phone. He knew that the hunter would see through the lie, but Dean’s dignity was already precarious, and there were things--important things--that Dean and Bobby always left unsaid.

Dean picked a direction, and Castiel drove.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Withdrawal kicks in here.


	17. On The Rocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You do not have the patent on grief, Dean."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnotes for warnings about this chapter.

This was a new low, even for Dean Winchester.

He didn’t have anything left in his stomach to throw up. He was sure of that, because it had been more than twenty-four hours since he’d eaten, but damn if his stomach wasn’t trying to reject every _molecule_ still hanging on for dear life. It was just dry-heaving now, but he was still curled around the toilet bowl of the motel room, just in case. Cas rubbed his shoulders again; it was soothing, flat palm dragging back and forth across his sweat-soaked shirt. New low didn’t even _describe_ it.

It was better, though. The withdrawal exacting its vicious revenge on his body was a distraction from the constant drone of _Sam is gone, Sam is gone, Sam is gone_ , the drone that had long since ceased to be words and melted into a torrent of feeling and fury. He was shaking, and maybe throwing up chunks of lung, and running a low-grade fever, and having some seriously weird tactile hallucinations, but physical pain was old hat. Almost a relief. It burned everything else out, a real trial by fire, and he wondered dispassionately what would happen when it stopped.

“You should get some sleep,” he rasped out. “You feel tired, man.”

It didn’t even sound weird to him anymore, commenting on the very core of the moods he could detect emanating from the former angel, and that was weird in itself.

“I’m afraid to sleep,” Cas answered, the air of a confession in his voice. “What if you have a seizure?”

Dean was starting to regret giving Cas access to the internet, but then again, maybe he’d already had that tidbit of knowledge before going human. “Pretty sure it’ll wake you up,” he croaked. “I think I’m okay, though, Cas. Last few weeks have been pretty bad, but...”

“The last few _months_ have been bad,” Cas contradicted worriedly. “Dean, you’re not as aware of your habits as you should be. This withdrawal could be very severe.”

“Yeah, but what’re you gonna be able to do for me when you’re exhausted?” Dean replied, pressing his forehead against the toilet seat, which, _gross_ , but it was cool and supportive and also non-judgmental, which was nice. “Hate to break it to you, man, but I am not gonna be able to do a damn thing over the next few days. You’ve gotta take care of yourself if we’re gonna make it through this shit.”

“You’re right,” Cas murmured. He pressed a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck, lips dry and warm. “I’ll try to sleep. If you need anything...”

“You’ll know,” Dean managed, and dry-heaved again. He felt Cas flinch in sympathy, then fingers gently stroking through his hair, reassuring; Cas’s footsteps receded into the motel room, and he was alone.

The worst part was the taste. No matter how many times he brushed his teeth, no matter how much water he tried to keep down, the whiskey was still there, all-permeating, bitter on his tongue. It was nauseating, thick, cloying. With what little strength he could muster—it had been nearly two days, now, since he’d done more than doze fitfully—he kicked his leg toward the door and pushed it mostly closed, hoping to spare Cas the sound. The smell. It was the best he could do.

He tried to hang onto that, the thread that trickled through the overwhelming physical symptoms. He was doing this for Cas. He was doing it because the false vision of 2014 still terrified him. Lucifer wearing Sam and a white suit was already out of the way, no longer possible, even if that hadn’t turned out exactly how he wanted, but Sam wasn’t all he had these days. There was Cas. Cas was important. Cas was the good thing left to him when the smoke cleared, and he was still suffering over what he’d lost, but he needed to start making the best of what he had, sooner rather than later.

And if he got to put Crowley in his crosshairs someday, too, that would have to suffice. He wondered how Crowley’s face would twist if he tied him up in a Devil’s Trap and injected holy water in his veins, if he made him drink salt through a sieve. He wondered how long the deposed King of Hell would last if he had the right tools in hand—

He dry-heaved again, stomach aching, throat screaming, and knew that he would imagine that moment for months. Crowley, strung up where Alastair had been. Crowley, suffering for days or weeks while Dean took out all his wrath on the demon who deserved it. He would imagine it, but he wouldn’t do it. He would dream of it, but when he found Crowley, he wouldn’t waste any time. He would kill the son of a bitch, and not give him the satisfaction of bringing out the worst in Dean in the process.

 

 

 

He woke up curled on the cold bathroom floor, shaking. 

“Dean. Dean, you should move to the bed.” Cas’s hand was tight on his shoulder, dark circles under his eyes. He’d slept fitfully at best; Dean could feel the snatches of dreaming, curling off his friend like smoke, a constant anxiety that chanted _Dean Dean Dean_ and didn’t let him rest.

“Need a shower, first,” Dean groaned. “Come on, help me up.”

He wrapped weak fingers around the handprint on Cas’s forearm, and Cas’s hand clenched tight, reassuring, on his in turn; Cas pulled him up, slowly, gently as he could, and supported his weight when he swayed suddenly, unbalanced. Gently, he pushed Dean back to lean against the sink, making sure he was stabilized, before he ducked around the shower curtain and turned on the water.

“Make it warm, but not hot,” Dean said, even though his teeth were chattering. The fever was making him feel cold and clammy.

Cas helped him strip off his sweat-soaked clothes before pulling off his own, and Dean remembered this, weeks and weeks ago now, their roles reversed. He let Cas support his weight, let his hands hover close as Dean clambered into the shower and Cas ducked through the curtain after him; he couldn’t do anything else.

“How long did I sleep?” he asked, leaning back into the spray of water. It drenched his hair and ran down his face as he closed his eyes and let the tile wall hold him up.

“A few hours,” Cas said. “I would have gotten you off the floor earlier, but I fell asleep.”

“Stop,” Dean said, maybe too sharply, at the surge of guilt and anxiety from Cas’s end of their bond. He blinked the water out of his eyes and glared; Cas looked back, eyes narrowed. “You needed rest, and the floor isn’t the worst place I’ve slept.” He rolled his neck to the side, cracking out a kink, and another shiver wracked him, the first since waking up, but at least his stomach was staying in one place for now.

“We’re approaching forty-eight hours,” Cas said, and reaching out, he took Dean’s wrist in his hand, fingers pressing to his pulse point. “Count to fifteen. Slowly.”

Dean wondered what forty-eight hours meant—if that was a milestone, if things were about to get better or worse. “Fifteen,” he said.

“One hundred beats per minutes. Elevated, but steady.” Cas stepped closer, picking up the motel shampoo at the edge of the tub. “No nausea?”

“Not right now,” Dean muttered, only making a half-hearted attempt to take the shampoo from Cas. His blue eyes glared, holding the soap out of reach, and Dean felt a smile twitch his lips, because that was Cas’s smite-happy look, and it was still good to see it.

And Cas was good at this—maybe that wasn’t so surprising, because he’d been saving Dean’s ass for years, but he was good at the small stuff, too, clinical and gentle.

“Any disorientation? Hallucinations?”

Dean snorted and closed his eyes; Cas’s blunt nails scraped against his scalp, rubbing in the soap, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel damn good. “Don’t think so. Unless this isn’t real, but it feels pretty real.” Cas tipped his head back into the water again, and he let himself be manhandled, keeping his eyes shut tight. “What happens at forty-eight hours?” he asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“DTs, if you’re very unlucky,” Cas answered, snippy and anxious, and Dean blinked his eyes open again.

“DTs,” Dean repeated, watching Cas shuffle around for the bar of soap.

“Delirium tremens.”

“Shaking frenzy?” He rolled his eyes at Cas’s look of surprise. “I know some Latin, asshole.”

Cas chose to ignore the insult. “It’s the most severe result of alcohol withdrawal. You’ll be unable to differentiate hallucination from reality, experience panic attacks, profound paranoia, and potentially tachycardia and seizures.”

“That’s not a sure thing, right?” Dean muttered, letting Cas soap away days of sweat.

“The more severe your addiction, the more severe the withdrawal, but not all alcoholics experience DTs.”

“Can we not throw that word around?” Dean grumbled.

Blue eyes snapped to his, and suddenly Cas was far into his personal space, one hand tight around his shoulder, the other at his hip, pushing him back into the wall of the shower. Dean winced; Cas wasn’t an angel anymore, but his anger went a long way, and it was with all the livid strength of a half-Fallen warrior of Heaven that Cas confronted him now. For a split second, he saw a trench coat, a blue tie, a rainy, dark alleyway, heard a furious roar— _I rebelled for this?!_

“This is not a joke,” Cas snarled, and Dean flinched, snapping back to the cooling water, the shivers, the heartbeat that had just spiked against his ribs. “If you do not understand the severity of your dependence, I will _make you_. You will never be able to have a casual drink again without fear of relapse; you will salivate in every bar you set foot in; you will crave a drink with every pang of fear or remorse or anxiety—and instead of burying it all, you’ll have to face it. If you can’t even accept a diagnosis, how to expect to overcome those obstacles?”

And just like then, he went limp in Cas’s grip, let the angel throw him around because it was all he could do. “It wasn’t so bad,” Dean said, trying to blink the water out of his eyes. “I stopped, when you first Fell. Wasn’t great, but it wasn’t like this.”

Cas’s clenched fingers relaxed, just enough so that the wall was holding Dean up and Cas was just touching him. “You had better things to occupy you, then,” Cas said. “And you hadn’t just spent over two weeks constantly drunk.”

“I haven’t been constantly drunk,” Dean said quietly.

Cas huffed an exasperated sigh and said, very seriously, “Dean, do you understand what _tolerance_ means?”

Dean glared back, the energy to argue seeping out of him; it hadn’t been strong to begin with. Cas was right, and Dean knew he was right, or he wouldn’t have been shivering and vomiting in a motel room in Colorado Springs for the last however-many hours it had been. Cas’s fingers flexed into his shoulders, gently scrubbing in soap as though he sensed Dean’s defeat, and Dean let him, closing his eyes. He took some guilty comfort from being cared for like this. It made him bristle on the verge of pushing Cas away and banishing his warmth, but his presence was solid as a brick wall, as ever—there was no escaping it, the lithe hands cleansing his skin and tipping his face back into the water, the steady buzz of another consciousness brushing his own.

It had become so commonplace, second-nature, this extension of himself in Castiel, long a comfort now instead of a curse, and he thought he maybe should still worry about it. And he did, just not in the way he once had—didn’t worry about what Cas could glimpse in him, but instead about what Cas could _absorb_ from him. The last few weeks had been an endless howl, the fierce scream of pain drowning out all conscious thought, and Cas—Cas was suffering from the frequency, struggling to find a release that worked, that helped at all.

He felt Cas’s forehead drop to his shoulder with a sudden _thump_ , and automatically, he tangled his arms around the angel’s waist. Cas let out a huff of air that might have been another sigh. “You are remarkably self-centered,” Cas rumbled, a note of exhaustion in his voice. “You do not have the patent on grief, Dean. Sam was my friend, and I share much of the guilt for his death. At the very least, I am to blame for your excessive suffering.”

“Don’t,” Dean muttered; his throat constricted, and the image of that warehouse assaulted him again, finally cutting through the haze of withdrawal. “Don’t do that.”

“It’s true,” Cas said, trying for flatness, but his gravelly voice was brittle. “You know it is, Dean. If I hadn’t raised him, you would never have had to kill him to protect me.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Dean snapped, and Cas only blinked up at him, his features like stone, passive—but Dean could still feel him, behind those flat blue eyes, the turmoil, the guilt, the memory, the self-loathing that sprang up in confusing gusts. “It wasn’t Sam,” Dean said, fingers tightening into Cas’s hips, and a little noise strangled in Cas’s throat, something that might have been pain. “Do you think I really should have let him— _execute_ you? You think I _could have_? You’re wrong. You’re so fucking wrong.”

The water had started to go cold; it prickled against Dean’s skin, wracked him with shivers.

“I was only stating a fact,” Cas said, and his eyes were hard now, his voice forceful. “Just because I’ve Fallen doesn’t mean I’m helpless, or that I deserve to be absolved of guilt, or that I am particularly susceptible to our bond—my grief is my own. My _suffering_ is my own.” He reached behind Dean and twisted the shower off. “You are allowed your share of guilt, but in this matter, it rests elsewhere. Do not be foolish enough to believe otherwise.” He pulled his towel down from the shower rod and scrubbed it fiercely over his hair, stepping out of the tub. “Even the Righteous Man cannot control the workings of an entire world—and you certainly don’t control me.”

By the time Dean emerged from the bathroom, still shivering, Cas was gone, and he didn’t have the energy to go after him, wasn’t even sure what he’d say if he did. He just sat down on the bed instead, curled up under the covers, and closed his eyes.

 

 

 

Castiel didn’t really have anywhere to go, once he’d yanked on his jeans and t-shirt and boots; he left the motel room but found himself face-to-face with the Impala and a leash tight around him, because he couldn’t go far. Even angry at Dean, furious at him, he couldn’t go far. He needed to be close. In case. 

He threw himself into the Impala, let the door slam shut, shucked his boots off again and propped his socked feet on the dashboard. The scent of leather—the one that clung to Dean even when he hadn’t driven the car in days—overwhelmed him, and he closed his eyes, breathing it in. It was comforting, reminded him of easier times, and it was laughable to think that the first apocalypse had really been easier, but it had. It was easier than this.

He slipped his wallet out of his back pocket. It had been Jimmy Novak’s, and still had his driver’s license tucked behind Castiel’s, still had a photograph of Amelia and Claire in one of the transparent plastic sleeves, worn and faded. For half a year, his only contribution to the billfold had been two pictures, tucked and folded behind a few crumpled dollars. He pulled the glossy paper free, unfolding the first photograph with a strange mixture of affection and remorse.

Bobby had made copies, of course. It was hard for any of them to look at their faces: Jo’s bemused look, tucked under Dean’s arm, the way she’d smiled up at him just a minute before the camera flashed, coy and self-indulgent after rejecting him with all the grace she possessed; the sarcasm and mirth bleeding out of Ellen’s features in the wake of Castiel’s own words, a raw resolve in its wake, as if she’d expected her life to culminate in nothing more or less than this. He and Bobby, Sam and Dean, had all carried this photograph ever since, and Castiel knew enough about humanity even then to understand why. All the same, he didn’t look at it often. It reminded him of a night spent with two women he missed, two women who had given him an entertaining, warm evening in the midst of doubt and grief and fear, who had laid down their lives for a world that didn’t remember them.

The second photograph had been taken that night, too, later on, after more rounds of tequila and fevered arguments about things that didn’t matter. Dean’s arm was slung around Castiel’s shoulders as he grinned at the camera, beer in hand; Castiel, still sober after a handle of tequila, stared sideways at Dean, his lip just barely curved toward amusement. The two of them leaned back against Bobby’s desk. Sam had taken the picture through fits of laughter at Dean’s impersonation of Raphael; the frame was slightly off, capturing Dean and Castiel at an angle.

That was less than a year ago, but it already seemed long distant: Jo asleep on her folded arms at Bobby’s kitchen table, Bobby’s head tipped back with resounding snores, Ellen gently tugging the half-empty beer bottle from his slack grasp, Sam’s hiccuping laughter, Dean’s bravado in the face of terrible odds, and Castiel, filled with an ache that he hadn’t understood, one that sparked every time he saw Dean’s face and thought, _He doesn’t deserve this_.

It had been a different time, a different war, and that was the problem, Castiel thought; he and Dean were soldiers, had been their entire lives, and the war was finally over. This was just _living_. It was cold and uncomfortable, it ached and it hurt, and loss threatened to drown them all at every turn, threatened to rip away the few precious things they had left.

The sudden rustle of wings filled the car, and when Castiel turned to look, Balthazar was sprawled across the backseat, looking uncharacteristically morose.

“Please tell me you didn’t let Winchester put you in the dog house,” Balthazar said, but his smirk lacked heart.

“Any news?” Castiel asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Not good news,” Balthazar muttered, adjusting his feet on the windowsill. “It was hard enough to imagine fetching him back before—now that he’s split over not one, but _two_ afterlives, it’s become...complicated.” He hesitated and tried for a sympathetic smile, but it came out more of a grimace. “Gabriel can’t do it, Cassie. I don’t know if Death himself could.”

When Castiel had shouted himself hoarse in the field where his wings had burned, screaming his throat raw to get Gabriel’s attention, he had known that much. Sam’s soul was still locked tight in Lucifer’s cage, and the rest of Sam—his consciousness, his identity, his memories—would by now be imprisoned in Purgatory.

“We’re not made for Hell,” Balthazar added into the silence, lighting a cigarette. “But Purgatory is worse than that. No angel has ever been there. And opening the blasted thing—we’ve been over that already. Leviathan. Apocalypse. Blah, blah, blah.”

“I know,” Castiel said, and folded the photographs back into his wallet. He had grown a tolerance to the sense of defeat that had plagued him for months; it barely rankled now, just a soft, familiar weight, heavy in his chest.

“Hope you didn’t get Dean’s hopes up,” Balthazar said bracingly. “He’s so prickly when he’s disappointed.”

“Dean doesn’t know I’ve made any effort to recover Sam,” Castiel corrected. “And it will stay that way, Balthazar.”

“Keeping secrets now, are we? That always goes so well.”

“It’s done,” Castiel said, more sharply than he intended. “I won’t be looking for Sam anymore. Dean needs me here.”

Balthazar exhaled heartily, the scent of tobacco drifting toward Castiel. “I could help, you know,” he said quietly. “Get him through to the other side of withdrawal in an instant. You wouldn’t have to babysit him.”

“I will always have to babysit him,” Castiel replied, a little wry, and Balthazar huffed a laugh, teeth flashing white in the dark interior of the Impala. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I think...he needs the distraction.”

“Right. Well.” Balthazar took the cigarette from his mouth; a gray curl of smoke rose toward the ceiling. “Don’t we all.” He offered the box to Castiel. “Cigarette?”

Castiel felt his lip twitch toward an unintentional smile. “I never accepted that offer when they had no power to hurt me; why would I do it now, when they could kill me?”

Balthazar grimaced. “Always so cheery.” His eyes flickered, quick and sudden, toward remorse, but then he inhaled again and the expression was gone as quickly as it’d come. “I could just fix it, you know. If you got ill.”

“That’s not how this is supposed to work,” Castiel pointed out, and Balthazar snorted.

“What, because you didn’t make gratuitous use of your special powers to keep the Winchesters alive and well? Right. Never changed a molecule.”

“That was when angels and demons were putting themselves at an unfair advantage,” Castiel remarked, and Balthazar rolled his eyes. “But the angels are gone, and Lucifer is caged. We can handle what’s left without divine intervention.”

“You’re going to die, Cassie,” Balthazar said, his voice suddenly harsh. He leaned forward, fingers too tight around his cigarette. “Not today, maybe not next year, but—soon. You’re going to _die_.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that the point?” he asked.

“You idiot,” Balthazar muttered. “I’m trying to say that I’ll _miss_ you.”

“You’re an angel,” Castiel said, and it still felt strange for his lips to form around an old identity, one that had burned up in war. “I have a soul. I won’t stop existing, not for you.”

“It’s not the same, though, is it?” Balthazar replied, his smile rueful, and then his gaze dropped back to his cigarette, his voice quieting. “What’s it like, Cassie?”

“What?” Castiel asked, perplexed.

“Being...human. Soul, and all.”

Castiel paused for a beat, and then, worried, asked, “You’re not thinking of Falling, are you?”

Balthazar chuckled, leaning back against the door. “No. It wouldn’t suit me. I just...wondered.”

Castiel thought for a long moment, flipping over the memories of the last several weeks, and finally settled on an undeniable fact. “It’s uncomfortable.”

Balthazar snorted. “Way to sell it.”

“It is,” Castiel insisted. “I have to remember to sleep, to eat, to not read for too long or my eyes and my head hurt, and if I forget any of these things I experience apparently uncontrollable changes of mood which make me...unpleasant...to be around.” Balthazar chuckled again, clearly amused, and Castiel pressed on. “My neck hurts if I don’t sleep on exactly the right number of pillows. People are harder to deal with because I have to navigate not only _their_ thoughts and feelings, but mine, and not all of them make sense. I get injured easily and by things that were once not even a _threat_ to me, like cars and shovels and spirits. I can’t stay still for as long as an angel, but it feels uncomfortable to move so much, and I feel shackled without my wings.” He stopped, frowning. “Do you remember my wings?” he asked.

“What, those great black things Dean graced you with after Hell?” Balthazar snickered. “Who _wouldn’t_ remember those?”

“I liked them,” Castiel retaliated, offended. “But I meant my wings before. Before Hell. Dean was curious.”

Balthazar’s blue eyes appraised him, critical. “Do you remember what we were like? Without this?” He flicked his arm, indicating his vessel.

“Vaguely,” Castiel said. “Impossible pillars of light, mostly. A sound like...” He cleared his throat, went on in guttural Enochian, because there were no words for it in English or any human language; he knew what Dean had called his true voice, a piercing noise that shattered glass and shook the abandoned country store. The sound was clearer to his memory than the image, clear as anything, but his own deep voice—Jimmy’s voice, just a handful of notes lower—was infinitely more familiar to him, now, the only thing he ever expected to hear emerge from his lips.

“I can still see demons,” he added, the thought discomfiting him. “Inside their hosts, I can see them. Hellhounds, too. But I don’t...I don’t see you, inside your vessel.”

Balthazar shrugged. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Your Grace is almost entirely gone, and it’s easier to detect demons and hellhounds than it is angels.” He cleared his throat. “Your wings were...unremarkable. We were made to be soldiers, not individuals. Those pillars of light you remember, the wings are tangled up in there somewhere. We were uniform. Before Hell and Dean, anyway. Just light and singing. And now, well.” He smirked. “Now it’s a lot of light and confusion.”

“How is Gabriel doing?” Castiel asked, nearly afraid of the answer; the archangel had been in a horrible mood when Castiel had last confronted him.

“Fine. Stir-crazy, but fine. It’s the other angels who aren’t doing so well.” He grimaced again. “Taking bets on the garrison with the largest number of Fallen.”

Castiel’s stomach sank, though he knew it shouldn’t. It was an action he’d chosen for himself, that even Anna had once long ago chosen, but the thought of his brothers and sisters Falling—because of him, because of his _disruption_ of the natural order—still made him uneasy. “Who?”

“Inias. Hester. Samandriel.” Balthazar ticked them off on his fingers. “Rachel seriously considered, for a very long time. We’re talking endless meditation on the subject. She decided against it; I’m not certain why.”

“How did they...” Castiel swallowed over the lump in his throat, trying to smooth the grate in his voice; a flash of sympathy kindled in Balthazar’s features. “Are they on Earth?” he croaked finally.

“They let their vessels go,” Balthazar said. “Very noble of them. Followed Anna’s example. There was no finesse to it—sounded bloody painful. Gabriel’s collected their Grace, for safe-keeping. Just in case. If they’re like her...someday they might not even remember that they were angels.”

Castiel wished he had said goodbye, wished them luck, his steadfast, Fallen soldiers; it was very human to think of them as _his_ , as a thing that belonged in some small part to him, and since the war in particular—though it had begun long before that—he had longed to protect them, keep them safe. He knew there was nothing safe about being human, that it was unpredictable and confusing and messy, and that they were out there, making their way through it all alone. He had, at least, had Dean. It seemed he had always had Dean.

“It was sudden,” Balthazar said, as though sensing his remorse. “No time for goodbyes. They couldn’t bear it, Cassie. They fought a war to save humanity...they felt obsolete, finished. A lot of us do. There’ll be others.”

“And Raphael’s soldiers?” Castiel asked, nearly dreading the answer. “How are they?”

Balthazar shrugged, a halfhearted gesture. “Some of them are furious,” he admitted. “Gabriel’s keeping them in containment, trying to...reason with them. Virgil’s the worst.” He sighed. “But for the most part, they’re just...disappointed. Purposeless. Paradise on Earth, that was what they wanted, and they know it’s not coming.”

They sat in silence for a handful of moments. Once, in a quiet like this, Castiel had heard the very stars shift, the moon spin, the Earth plummet on through an endless orbit, but now all he heard was the soft sound of Balthazar’s habitual breathing, the occasional soft creak of leather, the near-silent burn of the cigarette, and Dean’s uneasy sleep twenty yards away, his pulse still too fast but at least constant, a steady beat at the back of Castiel’s mind.

“It’s uncomfortable,” he said at last. “And it’s hard, but there are good things on this Earth. They deserved... _we_ deserved...a choice. Freedom. It doesn’t mean that everything will be all right—”

“Too right,” Balthazar snorted. “There are a lot of nuclear weapons in the hands of trigger-happy assholes.”

“But at least we _choose_ , now,” Castiel pressed. “We can entertain our doubts, make our own way. It’s not Paradise, but blind obedience was worse. We weren’t even following God, Balthazar. He’s _gone_.”

“We thought we were,” Balthazar muttered. “We believed he was behind it all.”

“At least we’ll never make that mistake again,” Castiel said.

Balthazar smiled, a quick quirk of his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We never even knew him,” he said. “Nothing quite like pulling back the veil, is there?”

When Balthazar had gone, Castiel went back inside, locking the motel room door behind him. He pulled off his boots and jeans and t-shirt and crawled into bed beside Dean, who stirred and opened a bleary eye as the mattress dipped.

“You smell like cigarettes,” he grunted, but he curled closer to Castiel all the same.

“Balthazar has a smoking habit,” Castiel said, and smiled at the absurdity of that. “Go back to sleep.”

“‘M sorry,” Dean muttered against his neck, his voice thick with sleep. “‘Bout earlier. You were right. Bein’ a dick.”

It was something, Castiel thought. “I forgive you,” he said quietly.

“You always do,” Dean mumbled, and Castiel heard the unspoken _maybe you shouldn’t_ , but he didn’t linger on that. It was something, and that was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Withdrawal is very explicit in this chapter.


	18. Heaven of Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gone hunting, it said. Just a vengeful spirit. I’ll be back by morning. —Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex. Graphic, explicit sex. Consider yourself warned.

It was a long few weeks.

They moved aimlessly every few days, no destination in mind, only as far as they could drive before the sun went down, putting hundreds of miles between them and their last stop. At every new motel, Dean sent Cas to the front desk to get a room. He knew how he looked: bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes; the constantly clammy skin; haggard and drawn and too pale. He looked like he was dying. Sometimes, he thought he was. Often, he thought he should.

He got lucky, though—as if luck had anything to do with it. He felt weak, sick, uncomfortable, exhausted, and he _craved_ , fuck, did he _hunger_ —but the DTs, at least, skipped over him.

In California, they stayed near the ocean, even went to the beach a few days in a row. Dean’s skin got peppered with new freckles, and even Cas darkened up a bit, a light sunburn like a blush running across his cheekbones. The salty air felt good, and he could hide his shadowed eyes behind sunglasses and lay back on a towel in the sand. Everything was muffled, that close to the Earth, and it was a relief, to have white noise wash out the old stale grief in his head. Cas relaxed, too, plunging into the ocean with brief, childish giddiness. Dean watched him swim, cutting through the water smoothly and instinctively, and re-evaluated a long-ago assumption—maybe Jimmy had been one of those triathletes, not just a marathoner. Cas made swimming through a hard tide look easy.

Cas talked to Jody on the phone every few days or so; Dean heard him, outside the motel room perched on the hood of the Impala, a quiet chuckle occasionally breaking the low movement of his voice. Dean rarely caught more than random, warm syllables. He didn’t know what they talked about, but it was good for Cas, he thought, to use his voice on someone who could talk back. Dean didn’t have much to say anymore.

The former angel slowly fell into new habits that Dean thought he might’ve picked through the internet for; he slipped out of bed early to start running in the mornings, stocked produce in a cooler every time they moved, and ordered egg whites and a lot of white meat in diners. Dean remembered being younger, training like that: running every morning with Sam, sparring with Sam while dad was gone, shooting and gun maintenance and everything with _Sam._

“It might help,” Cas suggested mildly, hand pausing on the doorknob. “It’s a comforting routine.”

Dean grunted and halfheartedly chucked a pillow at Cas. It fell short. “I’d rather sleep,” he grumbled, and Cas shrugged, easy as that, and slipped out. Dean felt the faint echo of his feet hitting the sidewalk.

It was when Cas started vanishing from the room after dark, though, that Dean actually took notice. “Where’re you going?” he asked, glancing up from the TV; Cas was tugging on his boots.

“We’re nearly out of money,” Cas said matter-of-factly, standing. “I’m going to the bar.”

“You’ve never hustled pool in your life,” Dean commented, bemused.

“I’ve seen you do it enough times,” Cas said dryly. “I’ll manage.”

Dean wanted to say that Cas shouldn’t go—that he, like Dean, was bound to attract the wrong kind of attention if he went in alone—but Cas just snorted, unamused now, and said, “I can take care of myself, Dean. We need the money.”

Dean didn’t stop him.

 

 

 

In Texas, he woke up to find Cas gone, and finally started to worry.

It was two in the morning. There was a note on the nightstand, written on motel stationery. Dean had only seen Cas’s handwriting once before, in a dream, and it was as smooth and elegant as he remembered, all vertical loops and curves.

 _Gone hunting_ , it said. _Just a vengeful spirit. I’ll be back by morning. —Cas_

Dean wondered what had possessed Cas to shorten his name in a note. He also wondered when he had started sleeping deeply enough to miss Cas sneaking out of the motel room. A burst of adrenaline hit him from the distance, the echo of Cas’s footfalls in that half-buried place in his mind.

“Just a vengeful spirit, my ass,” he muttered aloud, and reached out through the bond to get a stronger fix on Cas’s location. There was another burst of adrenaline, the kiss of a shotgun kicking back against his shoulder, and a drop into a half-dug grave, endorphins pouring through Cas’s muscles as he dug back into the ground while the spirit was momentarily stunned.

“You dumbass,” Dean muttered, throwing back the sheet.

The actions were automatic, even if he hadn’t performed them in over a month: running a swift check on his shotgun, yanking on boots, loading salt rounds, and all the while cursing the brand of Winchester crazy that Cas seemed to have absorbed into the very fiber of his being. The Impala was gone, so Dean ran, a mile south to the local cemetery, keeping a tunnel-vision fix on Cas all the while. The fight had resumed, the spirit appearing to prevent Cas from burning it out of existence, and he was close enough to hear the shotgun blasts this time.

Cas didn’t shout down the spirit—not like Dean would’ve. He was silent, his determination a wall of effort, too busy _working_ to say a damn thing. Dean sprinted blind through the cemetery toward the little pops of light, and finally saw Cas, turning too slow to face a new attack, just before he was thrown back against an unmarked headstone. Dean raised his shotgun, but the spirit dissipated before he could shoot, sweeping out of existence like candle smoke.

He dropped down to one knee beside Cas and gave him a small shake. “Hey,” he said, using a thumb to peel Cas’s eyelid up just a bit. A hazed-over gaze struggled to focus on him; he’d been stunned by the hit to the headstone. “Hey, buddy, come on, I need you to wake up. Rise and shine, you son of a bitch.”

Cas’s eyelids cracked open on their own; Dean saw a sliver of blue, vaguely irritated. “Good,” he said bracingly, groping behind him for Cas’s shotgun, dropped in the grass. “Okay, I’m going to finish digging, and you’re—”

Cas wrenched the sawed-off from Dean’s grasp and pointed it behind Dean, bracing the barrel against his shoulder. Dean’s ear rang loudly as it went off; the spirit screamed behind him.

“Hurry up,” Cas said flatly, drawing the gun back toward him.

“Yes, sir,” Dean muttered, and grinned automatically when Cas glared at him. He jumped down into the grave, grabbing the shovel up from the disturbed mounds of dirt.

Between the two of them, it was quick work: Dean tossed out the dirt and pried open the coffin while Cas stayed up top, slumped against the headstone, firing every time the spirit reappeared. “Lighter fluid!” Dean shouted up, and Cas tossed the canister and salt down to Dean. He poured the stuff over the bones and dragged himself out of the grave—and that had never been the same, this part of the job, since he’d clawed his way from his own—and tossed a match down. The spirit burned up in front of them.

“You’re an idiot,” Dean announced before the ghost had finished screaming. He strode around the grave to drop down beside Cas again. “You’ve been on _one_ goddamn hunt—”

“I’ve been on _five_.” Cas glared with something like spite in his gaze and Dean blinked, stunned. “And you’ve been none the wiser. I had it under control.”

“Sure,” Dean said, recovering, reaching fingers back to feel Cas’s scalp through his hair. The skin hadn’t been broken, but Cas winced when he pressed his fingers to the spot where he’d made contact with the headstone. “Dude, there’s a reason me ‘n Sam were _partners_. Good to have backup, you know?”

“You weren’t ready,” Cas said, reaching up to catch Dean’s wrist in his hand, about to shove him away.

“Well, I am now,” Dean shot back. “Can you stand?”

Cas squinted at him. “You’re not as angry as I imagined you’d be.”

Dean huffed. “Were you _trying_ to make me angry? Awfully petty of you, Cas.”

“I wasn’t...I didn’t _intend_ for you to find out.”

“Well, good thing I did, or you’d be dead,” Dean snapped. “I need you. Alive. This kind of thing can _kill_ you now, I almost died hunting a _Rawhead_ , for Christ’s sake—”

“I love you,” Cas interrupted, anger still in every line of his features. His crow’s feet deepened at the corners with something almost like _malice_ as his lips spoke the words, resentful and heated and dark, his eyes a hard blue stare. “I can’t do anything to help you, and it’s painful and terrible and makes me feel useless, so I’m doing the _only_ thing that makes me feel useful. Is that so hard for you to understand?”

Dean opened his mouth to reply—to say something, anything—but no sound came out, and Cas was still staring at him so hatefully that he was sure he’d misheard something.

“Way to break it to a guy, Cas,” he finally croaked, and Cas’s resentment—he could _feel_ it, for fuck’s sake—only deepened.

“I don’t need to be _gentle_ with you,” Cas snarled, sitting up a bit straighter, taking his back away from the headstone. “I don’t need to _convince_ you of—”

Dean yanked Cas up by the collar of his shirt and kissed him, and Cas fought it, all the way: whenever Dean drew back to draw breath the browbeating began anew, and Cas was full of teeth and fury, anger and despair pouring out of him in waves, but he didn’t pull back. He got a white-knuckled grip on Dean’s shoulder and kept it there, the shock of the contact flooding Dean’s already-stripped nerves with the confusion of _pleasure_ after so many weeks of pain. It lifted the fog, lit him up from the inside out; he forgot the quest for revenge, his new crusade, Crowley, Sam, the constant thirst for whiskey.

Cas finally pulled back on his own, breathing heavily, a little of the righteous fury gone out of his face, his grip still tight into the old handprint on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean, through lips swollen by teeth, said, “I love you too, you _dumbass_.”

“Would you be angry if I hit you?” Cas replied, a little petulantly, but Dean just laughed and pulled Cas to his feet, slung one of his arms around his shoulders, and helped him limp back to the car.

It was quiet, Cas still burning with irritation, head slumped against the cool of the window. Dean could feel it, soothing his throbbing skull, the ice cube effect of numbing. Cas only glared at him when Dean tried to help him out of the car, and with hands held up in surrender, he followed Cas back into the motel room, shuffling to the freezer in search of an ice pack for the back of his head.

He needed stitches, too, where at some point earlier in the night the shovel had sliced open his thigh. “You gonna let me help with that?” Dean asked, still a little wry and light-headed, because Cas could be fucking terrifying when he was angry, but he could be hilarious, too, all that righteous fury with nowhere to go.

Cas grunted, still irritable, and shucked off his jeans. “I’ll manage. You’ll shake too much.”

“Oh, come on,” Dean said, exasperated. He held out his hand for inspection, and Cas, clearly against his will, eyed it warily. “Shakes’ve been gone for weeks, man. I can work a needle.”

They didn’t use whiskey for disinfectant—probably never would again. Dean dug hydrogen peroxide out of a makeshift first aid kit and made do with that, cleaning away the blood and grime, and then got to work. Cas gritted his teeth and didn’t say anything as the needle pulled through his skin, but then, he always had been a tough son of a bitch, and a few stitches weren’t exactly the worst thing to ever happen to him. His resentment had pushed back to a low simmer now, quiet beneath the physical sensation of pain.

He went to the bathroom to wash his hands when the stitches were done, and when he came back, Cas was still perched at the edge of the bed, stock-still, staring at the wound a few inches below the line of his boxers. The last several weeks came back to Dean in an exhausting, comprehensive rush: his continual silence, once the last of the withdrawal symptoms had faded; the crusade lingering around him, letters at the top of a legal pad and nothing to go on; the way Cas had been drifting, slowly but surely, further and further away—or maybe it was the other way around.

“Cas,” he murmured, but Cas didn’t look up.

He moved forward, slow and careful, stepped up close between Cas’s legs when the angel didn’t stop him. Every line in his body was one of rigid tension, and Dean wanted to strip it out, because they’d been doing so well, hadn’t they? Before Sam died and everything went to Hell?

He slipped fingers back into Cas’s hair, touch careful over his bruised skull, and Cas jerked as though to wrench away, but Dean kept him still, a palm wrapped gently over a stubbled jaw, fingers tangled up in wild hair—longer than Dean remembered, because it’d been a while since he’d paid attention, and Cas’s hair was growing now, changing.

“Don’t,” Cas said, and his voice was a new kind of low and strained, no gravel, just a weak plead.

“Not going anywhere,” Dean murmured, tilting Cas’s head back so those blue eyes had no choice but to look up at him, wounded and angry still, so exhausted.

“Please,” Cas said, and Dean felt him bracing to put up a fight. “Dean, it—”

“I know,” Dean said. He leaned down just enough to press his lips to Cas’s forehead, felt his eyes close in spite of his protests. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, pressing Cas back into the mattress, following him down.

Cas’s mind was on another night, when things had been easier, simpler, newer; he was remembering that first unbelievable heat of Dean’s lips brushing up his throat—of Dean’s fingers, spreading him open—of Dean’s shoulder beneath his hand, nails clenching into skin as Castiel’s name fell from the hunter’s lips and he _Fell_ , because an orgasm was like Falling, and Dean had shown him to the edge and dragged them both down—

And then Cas was on him, the weight of the former angel pressing _him_ down into the mattress, hands curved around his shoulders, legs pinning his hips to the bed. Dean stared up at him, raw from the sudden rush of memories, and Cas panted, hungry and hurting in the depths of his soul, _demanding_ and terrified and full of more emotion than he knew what to do with. Dean couldn’t move, paralyzed by the sheer force of a hurricane bottled up in skin.

“This isn’t a _solution_ ,” Cas growled, low and dark.

“Didn’t say it was,” Dean shot back, even though the breath in his lungs only produced something like a wheeze.

“What is it, then?” Cas asked, the edge of desperation in his hard voice, and Dean wished he could get his hands free enough to _touch_ him.

“Just tryin’ to get back to you,” he said, just hoping that Cas felt it, the intent behind jumbled words, because he didn’t know how to say it— _I feel like I’ve been gone_ and _I miss you, I miss us_ and _it all just got buried, my brother, I miss him, I’m sorry, I just got lost_ —

Cas’s features fell, broke; he was leaning down, kissing Dean, hands a bit looser on his shoulders, enough that Dean could lift his hands and cup Cas’s elbows, pulling them closer together than they’d been in what felt like years. He slipped a tongue against the seam of Dean’s lips and Dean opened for him, easy, and it was open-mouthed and messy and everything he’d forgotten he wanted during the last little forever.

Cas sat up in Dean’s lap, pulling Dean up with him, yanking the single t-shirt up quickly and only breaking the kiss briefly; Dean had been in a hurry and hadn’t bothered with his usual layers when he went out sprinting after Cas. Dean pushed his hands up, over the hot, bare skin beneath Cas’s shirts and felt the muscles jump beneath his hands. He smoothed his fingers over Cas’s hip bones and Cas made a noise against his mouth, a soft sound like the wind going out of him, and when Dean pulled Cas’s shirt off over his head, his angel didn’t protest.

His arms wrapped around Cas’s waist, palms sliding up the long expanse of his back, his lungs tight in his chest as Cas mouthed at the spot beneath his jaw, the one that made his vision go crystal-clear and then a little dim in reaction, fading in and out like a bad tuner on an old TV. Cas threw his weight against Dean, just enough to tumble him back to his back on the bed, Cas’s fingers fumbling between them at Dean’s jeans now, slipping the button free and yanking a zipper down over where Dean was already hard, aching, longing to press up against Cas’s hand.

Cas was sucking a hard mark into the crook of Dean’s shoulder—all teeth and suction, pleasure so painful or was it the other way around—and his fingers curled around the fabric and pulled Dean’s jeans down, taking his boxer-briefs along with. “Dean,” he breathed, from where he was suddenly perched at Dean’s hip, and when he pressed a kiss right to the top of Dean’s thigh it was all Dean could do not to buck up against Cas’s face; the movement was an aborted little jerk, the head of his cock glancing off Cas’s cheek, a sound he wouldn’t admit to making torn from his throat.

Cas’s nails raked down the back of Dean’s calves as he finished pulling off the jeans, and Dean squirmed, ticklish and a little aroused by the vague streak of pain. The angel leaned back up, and Dean curled a hand around his hip, hooking a finger under his boxers and pulling them down; Cas kicked them free.

He was sweaty and stank of earth—the first scent he’d ever really associated with Castiel, after he’d clawed his way from his grave and seen the flattened trees in a ring around his burial ground—but Dean buried his nose in Cas’s shoulder all the same and inhaled, hard, as Cas twined a hand around their cocks, jacking them slowly together.

“ _Cas_ ,” he groaned, sudden and drawn-out, and then Cas was leaning up again, moving out of the warm circle of his arms. He was still draped, though, lithe body pressing hard over Dean’s, as he rummaged in the duffel bag at the side of the bed.

“I know,” Cas murmured, coming up with a little bottle of lube. He knelt up, between Dean’s legs, and pressed Dean’s knees up and apart, and Dean let himself be manhandled; it was reassuring, the firm press and release of Cas’s hands on him, running over his skin as though to calm him.

“I haven’t—done this,” Dean said, jerkily, felt compelled to confess it because he knew Cas’s intention without having been explicitly told, and the ghost of a smirk crossed Cas’s lips, wry and self-assured.

“I know,” Cas repeated; he pressed a light kiss back into Dean’s mouth, familiar and comforting. “You’ll like it,” he murmured against Dean’s throat, and Dean bit back a moan.

Cas settled up, loose on his knees, one hand wrapped comfortingly around Dean’s hip; Dean clenched fingers into that hand, the other settling to the sheet, bunching it up in his grasp. Cas poured out lube onto his fingertips, rubbed it between his fingers to warm it, and made a slow trail from the back of Dean’s balls down, down, until he was slicking up gently against Dean’s hole, taking his time about it.

Dean had some reservations about it—not that he hadn’t—he’d _experimented_ , Christ, and some girls were a whole other kind of kinky—but Cas was bigger than all that, and he didn’t think he’d ever been so turned on his life, just contemplating it, his cock stiff against his belly and begging for some kind of touch, and just as he considered that, Cas pressed the tip of a finger in.

He encountered a little resistance—Dean could feel it, even trying as hard as he was to relax, the pleasure and anticipation and anxiety humming hard in his muscles—but Cas just dipped down and caught the head of Dean’s cock in the warmth and wet of his lips, and suddenly, his finger pressed through, slick and strange and with little sparks of pleasure lighting the way beside the burn of being opened. Dean’s hips jerked, the movement stymied by Cas’s grip on his hip, and Cas’s tongue fluttered against the underside of his cock, pleased.

Dean was blank-staring at the ceiling, shocked by the multiplicity of sensation, and Cas kept the soft, even pressure of his mouth on Dean’s cock as he worked the finger in, circling slowly. His free finger rubbed around the rim, a touch that pressed and flattened, and Dean was groaning, hoarse and low, without knowing he was doing it. His hand lifted up from his grip on Cas’s hand to reach out blindly for the old place where his hand had burned, and Cas shuddered as they connected there.

“More?” Cas murmured, the word spoken into the skin of Dean’s stomach.

“Just—just...” And Cas understood, pressed another finger gently in beside the first, opening them slowly inside Dean. Cas was watching, now, his dark hair pillowed against the inside of Dean’s thigh, eyes trained on where his fingers were slowly scissoring Dean open.

“Come on,” Dean grated finally, head tossing back on the pillows because Cas hadn’t touched him in long minutes and he was _still_ hard and aching. “I’m ready, come on—”

Cas sat up; his fingers came free with an obscene noise. Hazed over by the weight of incredible lust—practically drowning him compared the vague fog he’d been wandering through before—he watched as Cas stroked lube over his own cock. He found himself being manhandled again, turned over onto his stomach; when he tried to get his knees beneath him, Cas pressed down on the small of his back, keeping him flush against the mattress.

“Relax,” the angel ordered, and Dean closed his eyes, face in the pillow, as Cas settled behind him, nudging between his cheeks with one hand gentle around Dean’s hip.

Cas pressed the head of his cock to Dean’s stretched hole, just deep enough to be swallowed by an inch. Dean’s heart was frantic against his ribs, his throat dry with the terrifying combination of _need_ and _fear_ , but Cas leaned down on his elbows, braced around Dean’s back, draped over him like a blanket, and pressed his lips over the mark he’d sucked into Dean’s shoulder earlier. Dean’s hips jerked back, and suddenly Cas was sliding inside, _filling_ him, and his shoulders were tense with how—how— _fuck_ —

Cas breathed, shallow soft pants against Dean’s skin, drew back and thrust, shallow. Dean felt him trembling. “Dean,” he groaned, voice scraping into Dean’s ear and leaving him raw. “Dean, Dean, _Dean_ ,” the litany of his name falling from Cas’s lips and dragging out over his skin, and his cock being rutted against the mattress with every stroke, and fuck- _God_ -dammit, there was no pace capable of holding him off for long, not when every nerve was firing at the touch of Cas buried inside him.

Dean was babbling, random strings of words, reduced to something he’d—this—had never been like this, and there was Cas, half-breathless, rumbling like a wave over his skin, saying things that made lights pop behind his eyelids, closed so tight he thought they might never open again: things like “Good, Dean, so good” and “wanted to be inside you, wanted it since you did this to me” and “Dean, _fuck_ ,” the dissolve into Enochian, Cas jolting him down into the mattress, his cock leaving a sticky spot on his stomach and the sheet, and the shameless, endless groan that rose up from his throat as Cas pressed—and _pressed_ —and—

It was like nothing, no other orgasm, the way he shook as the wave of _Castiel_ rolled through him and he shuddered and soaked the sheets beneath him, the way his body went so tense he thought he would rip apart, but mostly the way he didn’t think at all, the way the breath was squeezed out of him and he thought he was dying and, well, if this was dying, he’d gone worse ways.

When it stopped—when all was suddenly dim, even though his eyes had never opened and it was the same blackness as before—Cas was still draped over him, breathing heavily, his chest pressed to Dean’s back. Dean could feel the gasps ruffling through his hair, the raw sensation of having just been fucked wide open still new and humming in his nerves.

“That was,” Dean tried to say, but it came out a grumbled string of unintelligible syllables. Cas chuckled against his neck, a little strained, understanding him anyway.

“You liked it?”

“You _know_ how I felt about it,” Dean groaned, and because Cas was still a _heavy_ motherfucker, he rolled the angel gently off him and turned to face him instead, side-by-side and right in the damn wet spot.

Cas stared back at him, his hair wild, sweat all over his skin, his eyes a little overbright. “Dean,” he whispered, suddenly uncertain again, and goddamn it, was that the _only_ word Cas knew? Dean reached out just enough to pull Cas back to him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, and Cas pressed his face into the hollow of Dean’s throat, curling against him.

“Sorry,” he murmured back, lips moving against Cas’s hair. “I’m tryin’, buddy. I’m getting there. I didn’t...I didn’t mean to check out on you.”

Cas was an octopus, insinuating a leg between Dean’s, throwing an arm around his back, squeezing himself closer. “I missed you,” he said, muffled on Dean’s skin.

“Me too,” Dean muttered, squeezing Cas a little tighter.

They laid like that a few minutes, and Dean needed it; Cas needed it, too, the time to let his breathing even out against Dean’s throat. They hadn’t been this close—not like this—he could hardly remember the last time they’d done this; they’d been drifting further from each other, from the dividing line in the center of the mattress, for a while now, and Dean didn’t want it happening again, losing that tether.

Finally, though, even Cas shifted a little restlessly, and Dean grumbled, “All right, this is getting fucking gross,” and Cas laughed, the note a little hysterical but warm and real, too. Dean took a warm washcloth to the worst of it; they stripped the bed of the violated sheet and laid out beneath the extra blanket they found in the closet.

Cas shouldered back against his side, dark hair dropping to Dean’s shoulder, and Dean muttered, words slurring with exhaustion, “Think you need a haircut.”

Without preamble, Cas replied, “Some of my garrison has Fallen.”

Dean turned his head to the side, nose back in Cas’s hair. “Like you?” he asked, curious at the note of regret in his voice.

“Not exactly,” Cas said. “More like Anna. They let their vessels go, and Fell.”

“Hacked the Grace out,” Dean commented, a flash of red hair and white skin dancing in his memory.

“Yes. Gabriel collected their Grace for safekeeping.”

Dean waited, hand trailing slowly up and down Cas’s arm.

“I want to find them,” Cas said finally.

“Shouldn’t be hard,” Dean said. “Meteors. Easy enough to figure out what times match up with what birth records.” He paused, considering. “What do you want to do with them? They’re gonna be kids, Cas. Might not even know you. Anna forgot, she said.”

“They won’t,” Cas agreed, a little melancholy. “I want to make sure they’re...” He trailed off.

“Sure, Cas,” Dean murmured. “We can check up on ‘em.”

“I think there’s a Wendigo in Wisconsin, near where one of the meteors fell,” Cas added. “We should take care of that, too.”

“How d’you know it’s a Wendigo?” Dean asked, bemused.

“Location. Hikers vanishing. Destroyed campsites found. No bear sightings. I’m—I _was_ —an angel, Dean. I’m not incompetent.”

“Wendigo,” Dean consented, vaguely impressed. “Haven’t seen one of those since—”

“2005,” Cas answered. “It nearly ate you.”

“You’re creepy sometimes, you know that?” Dean grunted, closing his eyes.

He felt Cas smile, a totally inappropriate reaction to that comment, but it was Cas, definition of _problematic social interaction_ ; he fell asleep to the sound of his angel’s even breathing, Cas’s arm curled protectively around his ribs, warm and reassuring, and if he was scared of what they’d said in the cemetery, it was only because he was afraid, as always, of what he could lose.


	19. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re the asshole who trapped an archangel in holy fire and told him he was your little bitch.”

“Dean!” 

“Come and get me, you son of a bitch—!”

Castiel ran, boots heavy on the dirt trail, heavier than his wings had ever been. It was moments like these that he missed them with an ache that set fire to his shoulder blades; he could already be at Dean’s side, a hand on the Wendigo, burning it out. The thing roared, an inhuman noise of rage, and Dean’s flare gun went off but the sound didn’t stop. Castiel saw the light go off, missing its mark, and heard the heavy thud of Dean hitting the ground, felt secondhand as the wind was knocked out of him.

He saw movement to his left and skidded to a halt. The Wendigo’s back was to him, and the monster was already hunching down over Dean, stretching out gnarled fingers to grab hold of the hunter. Castiel raised his own flare gun and fired. It screamed as it went down, collapsing forward, and Dean scrambled back on his heels to get out of the way of the burning monster.

Dean was panting, dirt streaked across his face, but he was grinning, too. Castiel edged around the pile of flickering ash and offered a hand to help Dean up.

“I hate Wendigos,” Dean grunted with no real venom. He let Castiel haul him to his feet, wincing when he put too much weight on his left foot.

“Is it broken?” Castiel asked, squinting down at Dean’s boot.

“Just sprained. We’ll get some ice back at the motel.” Dean lifted his free hand to brush a thumb through the graze on Castiel’s cheek; he felt the warm smear of blood over skin. “Any other damage?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel replied. “You should be more careful.”

“Okay, _Mom_ ,” Dean shot back, smirking.

“Come on,” Castiel said, exasperated, and yanked Dean’s left arm over his shoulders. Dean let out an indignant yelp. “You should,” Castiel repeated, urging him forward. “I have no idea why you feel the need to _taunt_ every monster you hunt.”

“You’re the asshole who trapped an archangel in holy fire and told him he was your little bitch,” Dean groaned, but let Castiel take part of his weight.

“He was trapped,” Castiel pointed out. “The Wendigo was not.”

Ignoring this, Dean asked, “Wanna grab a bite to eat before we go back to the motel? Burgers.” He quirked his eyebrows.

Dean was, by no stretch of the imagination, fully healed. Castiel could still hear the silent scream from deep within his mind, the voice flayed open on a bed of lava deep within a Hell he couldn’t leave behind, but the dead look in his eyes had, at least, vacated; there were different thoughts and feelings bubbling inside him besides his pain, including a sudden rush of affection when Castiel tugged his arm tighter around his shoulders, a weird surge of pride as the Wendigo burned, things that were outside the event horizon of Sam’s death.

He was, at least, healing. There was a little more of the man that Castiel had once known resurfacing by the day, including a fixation on bad food and taunting monsters.

“You should ice your ankle,” Castiel pointed out reluctantly.

“We can grab ‘em and head back to the motel.”

Castiel considered the nutritional value of yet another late night eating cheeseburgers.

“Come _on_ ,” Dean groaned. “Our lives suck, man. The small pleasures are the only thing we’ve got.”

“There are pleasures that aren’t so likely to clog your arteries,” Castiel deadpanned, but he gave in, dumping Dean a little unceremoniously into the passenger side of the Impala. Dean sputtered, his thoughts tripping backward to the night before—and the night before that—and the night before that—and Castiel smirked as he made his way to the driver’s side, remembering the details with relish. The human mind got hung up on the most peculiar things: the exact sound Dean made when Castiel was first buried deep inside him; the glistening sweat in his dark blond hair when Castiel raked his nails through it; the way he squirmed, aborted little movements that Castiel stilled with a hand pressed into his lower back—

“Get us back to the motel and I’ll make you squirm,” Dean grouched halfheartedly as Castiel dropped into the Impala.

Castiel smiled. “Later. You’re hungry.”

Dean yanked him across the seat, but the kiss he pressed into Castiel’s lips was soft, warm, gentle; his fingers unknotted from Castiel’s shirt and cupped the back of his neck instead. Castiel relaxed into the touch, his thoughts blanking over with a brief hum of pleasure. When Dean released him, the hunter’s ears were slightly red, and his smile was vaguely embarrassed, as though he’d just done something unintentionally cute and accidentally enjoyed it.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled, and Castiel ducked his head to turn the key in the ignition, hiding his smile.

  
  
  


Castiel ate with Dean and then left him with _Dr. Sexy_ reruns and an ice pack around his ankle. “I could come with, you know,” he said with a grimace. “I’m not going to leap over the bar and start guzzling bourbon, or anything.”

“I know. It’s better not to torture yourself, though.” Castiel yanked on his boots. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“Don’t pretend to be FBI.”

Castiel sighed, Dean smirked, and Castiel packed badges into his jacket that he was sure he wouldn’t need. He had watched humanity for a long time, and he was fast discovering that even while human, his expertise lay in eavesdropping rather than direct questioning.

Bars were a good place for it. The nearest town was Oconomowoc; the meteor they were currently tracking had fallen in two pieces near the outskirts. Main Street was the only part of town at all active on a Thursday night, and conveniently lined with the type of dive bars where Castiel blended into corners with relative ease. He picked the first on the street and parked the Impala, trying to appear unobtrusive.

The bar was only half-full, mostly of locals crowded around two TVs, absorbed by the tail-end of the Brewers-Marlins game. Castiel seated himself at the bar, close enough to overhear if any of them mentioned something besides baseball, but he wasn’t hopeful.

“Can I get you anything, bud?”

Castiel turned his attention to the bartender, hovering in front of him with a rag, wiping down a glass.

“Just a Miller, thanks.” He opened his wallet for cash. He wouldn’t drink much of it—the taste had never appealed to him—but he’d already learned the hard way that sitting in a bar and drinking nothing didn’t get him anywhere with people. They viewed the behavior as suspicious.

“Haven’t seen you around before.” The bartender didn’t seem antagonistic about this. He’d already flipped a clean glass upright on the bar in front of Castiel and was filling it with golden liquid.

“Just passing through. Castiel.” He held out his hand.

The bartender shook it. “That’s a mouthful. Kevin.”

“Cas, for short.” He pulled the beer toward him.

“Got family in the area, Cas?”

“Yes,” he said, a little too slow. The bartender looked at him askance. “My sister is having a baby soon,” he added quickly.

Kevin paused in wiping down another glass, frowning. “Not Jennifer Berken? Didn’t think she had a brother.”

“No,” he replied; by the look on the bartender’s face, it didn’t look as if it would help to be related to Jennifer Berken. “Anna Milton,” he fabricated. “In Hartland.”

“Well, congratulations to her, then. Better that you’re not mixed up in that business.”

Castiel took a polite sip of his beer. “What business?”

The bartender glanced toward the men gathered around the television and leaned forward. Castiel did the same, hoping that this was a gesture of confidence and that he wasn’t about to be booted from the bar.

“Her husband came in here, week or so ago,” Kevin said. “Ranting and raving about how she’d cheated on him and saying he was going to kill her. Had to call the police. Got everyone riled up. It’s a small town, that kind of thing doesn’t happen much. He slept it off in a holding cell and vanished in the morning. She’s all on her own now. Poor girl. They grew up here, you know. High school sweethearts and all that.”

“That’s very sad,” Castiel murmured, heart sinking.

“Tried to convince Chris, tried to tell him—hey, man, maybe the doctors were wrong. Maybe you should take it as a miracle, or something. He wouldn’t believe it, though. Too stubborn for his own good.” Kevin shrugged. “Anyway. Enjoy the beer, man. Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

Castiel sat at the bar a long time, only finishing half of the syrupy beer, watching the other patrons filter out in victory when the game wrapped up in Milwaukee’s favor. When there were only a handful of others left, the door blew open; a Midwest autumn chill swept through Castiel’s jacket.

“Guinness,” a familiar voice called out.

A second later, Balthazar was on the stool beside Castiel, watching Kevin fill a glass with dark liquid.

“Why are you drinking that?” the angel muttered, eyeing the now-flat Miller in front of Castiel.

“Not for pleasure,” Castiel said, wrapping his fingers around the glass.

“Obviously.” Balthazar drank down a quarter of the pint immediately and set it back on the bar with a satisfied sigh.

“Why are you here?” Castiel asked, watching Balthazar eye the few patrons left in the bar, all hunched over their individual beers at separate tables.

“Looking for you. Impala's outside. Gabriel’s acting strangely.”

“I didn’t think that was my problem anymore,” Castiel said pointedly, raising his glass.

Balthazar rolled his eyes. “Just thought you might like to know, mate. He keeps vanishing—sometimes for weeks at a time. But he’s not going to Earth. No idea _where_ he’s going.”

“Does he always come back?”

“So far, yeah.”

“Then I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure Inias will have a good home,” Castiel replied.

“Thought that wasn’t your problem anymore.”

“Heaven isn’t watching over them.”

“So you will?”

Castiel stayed silent, staring at his beer.

Balthazar sighed, more heavily this time. “Cassie.”

“It’s my fault,” Castiel said flatly. “They would never have considered it otherwise. The least I can do is make sure that they’ll be happy.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

“I can try.”

Balthazar rested a hand on his shoulder. They stayed at the bar until Kevin closed for the night.

 

 

The woman inside the house was pregnant and alone. 

Castiel felt his own discomfort, just beneath his skin, aching and itching; he missed the rumble of the Impala’s engine, but the car attracted enough attention when the engine wasn’t growling, and the last thing they wanted was a suspicious neighbor coming out to shoo them off. And Castiel couldn’t move from this spot, didn’t want to. His eyes were snared on the woman in the window, the unkempt red hair, the shadows beneath her eyes, the hand smoothing mindlessly over her still-flat belly while the other hand clutched a mug of coffee. She was wan and shivering in the predawn light, a crocheted blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“You sure it’s her?” Dean asked, leaning across the front seat toward Castiel.

“Yes,” he replied, watching the woman as she lifted the mug to her lips and took a tentative sip. “The trajectory is right, and her husband was sterile. They’ve been unable to conceive.”

Dean raised his eyebrows in silent question. “Her husband left her,” Castiel clarified. “He was at the local bar last week, ranting about her unfaithfulness. The bartender is still telling the story.”

“But she wasn’t,” Dean pointed out needlessly. “Just happened to get in the way of falling angel sperm.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, Dean smirked at his own joke, and the woman looked down at the hand rubbing her stomach. Her eyes were red from tears cried hours earlier, but the corner of her mouth quirked up, momentary awe flitting across her features, and the discomfort in Castiel eased.

“Which one is it?” Dean asked.

“Inias,” Castiel answered. “His Grace was closest.”

Dean snorted.

“What?” Castiel asked absently, still watching the woman.

“Better hope she doesn’t name him that. Kid’ll be bullied for years.”

Castiel smiled. “Inias responds well to bullying. With or without Grace, that doesn’t change.”

“Think they’ll be okay?”

Castiel’s fingers twitched on the windowsill. He willed himself to leave them behind, a grieving woman alone with one of his Fallen soldiers, and tried to take comfort in the fact that they would have each other.

“He’ll have a normal life,” Dean pointed out, as though trying to be reassuring. “As normal as any of us get, anyway. More normal than ours. That’s something, right?”

Castiel nodded and finally looked away. “There’ll be more,” he said, defeated. “The war has made a lot of angels feel...obsolete.”

Dean squeezed Castiel’s shoulder, his hand warm. “We’ll find them.”

  
  
  


They crossed the country several times over in the following few months, picking up cases and tracking meteors to their landing sites. Castiel’s back complained about motel beds and ghosts throwing him into walls, and his adjustment to being human was far from over. He had nightmares about Hell, dreams of wandering that burning labyrinth while his garrison died around him, and woke up sweating and screaming just as often as Dean. The memories had never bothered him before—haunted him, of course, but not interrupted his functioning.

Now, though, there were days when he was jumpy and moody, days when he snapped at Dean for no real reason, days when they got into shouting matches because they were both irrevocably damaged. There were nights when he woke up sobbing from formless dreams, and Dean could barely put hands on him to soothe him, his skin crawled so painfully; there were days when several millennia of memories crowded in on him and threatened to suffocate him. With Dean relatively functional again, Castiel’s rigid control of his new humanity failed.

“It’s okay,” Dean soothed when Castiel was at his worst. “This is what being human’s like, man. It sucks sometimes.”

Castiel knew that, but he didn’t have to like it.

He took comfort in the little things: reading stories on long car rides, the ones that he had begun to forget the finer details of; warm mugs and travel cups of tea and milk, the kind that towed him slowly to wakefulness in the morning; long runs that Dean had started joining him on, grumbling all the way as he adjusted to sneakers after being so long in boots; the bright pop of citrus in an orange; the touch of the wind ruffling his hair or the sun caressing his skin; Dean breathing softly on the back of his neck in the middle of the night as they curled close together beneath the blankets. Being human was often a frustrating, painful enterprise, but there were things he cherished, too, things that reminded him of why he’d chosen this path.

Whenever they crossed through the midwest, they stopped at Bobby’s for a few days.

“If it isn’t the prodigal sons,” the old man shouted from the porch the first time they passed through. Jody ducked out through the door and grinned when her eyes met Castiel’s. It had been a long night in the country outside of Des Moines, and Castiel was still bruised from where the Woman in White had attempted to rip open his chest, but he still embraced the sheriff tightly, ignoring the pain.

“He missed you,” she whispered conspiratorially in his ear.

That much was obvious; Bobby hugged Dean as though he would never let the Righteous Man go again.

“I missed you, too,” Jody added, with another quiet smile, and Bobby clasped Castiel’s shoulder as Dean jokingly picked Jody up in an enthusiastic hug.

“You both seem better,” the sheriff told him the next day. She hoisted herself up on the hood of a beaten-in junker beside him, giving a little shiver in the brisk autumn breeze. It was early October, and a short-lived Indian summer was fading fast.

“Hunting is good for him,” Castiel said honestly. “It is for me, as well.”

“And your angels?” Jody asked.

“Safe,” Castiel replied, thinking of Hester and the beaming parents-to-be in Detroit, Samandriel and the quiet pleasure of a middle-aged couple in Flagstaff, the others who Fell sporadically and were slowly integrating into homes that were good or good enough—and if they weren’t, then someday he and Dean would intervene, somehow.

“Will there be any left in Heaven?” she pressed curiously.

Castiel nodded. “The legions are many. There will always be angels in Heaven.”

“Do you ever miss it?”

Castiel thought of the overbright place he had once preferred in Heaven, where a red kite sailed in a cloudless blue sky and the grass was stained, now, perpetually dark with his own blood. He remembered the endless drone of existence, of obedience, of faith, of worship, and thought of the tumult of the last few years, the uncertainty, the pain. He felt Dean, washing dishes in Bobby’s kitchen and laughing at something the other hunter said. He remembered his wings and surreptitiously rubbed a hand over the scar on his forearm, reassurance of its continued presence.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Not often. I miss my brothers and sisters the most, I think.”

“Will they remember you when they grow up?”

“It’s unlikely.” The thought made his stomach clench unhappily.

“What about when they die?”

Castiel shrugged. “They might, or they might not. This is unprecedented.” _Dean’s right_ , he thought, a little morosely, and felt Dean brighten smugly in the distance. _That should be my tagline._

Jody linked her arm through Castiel’s and leaned against his shoulder. It was comfortable, comforting—human and yet simple, uncomplicated.

“What’s Heaven like, Castiel?” she asked. “How does it work?”

He thought of the hundreds of billions of souls, the divided lands, of the best way to explain. “What are your happiest memories?”

He felt her smile against his shoulder. “My son being born. Marrying my husband. Graduating from the police academy. Rescuing my first dog from the shelter. Reading _Song of the Lionness_ for the first time.”

“What is that?” Castiel questioned, frowning.

“A book series about a girl who pretends to be a boy so that she can become a knight. They were kind of an obsession when I was a kid.”

“A worthwhile story,” Castiel agreed. “Heaven is all of those things. Tailored to your life—to your soul. It’s peace. Where you can be with the people you love or loved, forever.”

“But those are just memories.”

“There are exceptions. For soulmates, for example. They share a space.”

“Like you and Dean,” Jody said.

Castiel laughed. “I don’t know if we qualify,” he mused. “Until a few months ago, I didn’t have a soul. I’m not even sure I’ll go to Heaven; I’m an abomination. Hell or Purgatory are equally likely.”

“But your friends are in charge,” Jody protested. “Aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. “But if the last few years have taught me anything, it’s that change is unpredictable, and Gabriel is erratic in temperament. And I have done him no favors. He was quite happy in hiding, and now he’s quite miserable, and it’s all my fault.”

“You did what you thought was right,” Jody said. “I think it was, too. Everyone deserves a choice.”

Castiel tipped his head in gratitude, even though she couldn’t see it.

“Those are the only people who share?” she asked. “Soulmates?”

“There is a rebellion happening among retired hunters in Heaven,” Castiel said. “A particularly eccentric man who goes by Ash has made it his job to locate hunters in their various Heavens and reunite them with one another, and with whoever they wish to see. He pulls them out of their recycled memories, their peace, and gives them another choice.”

“I want that,” Jody said. “Screw peace.”

Castiel chuckled again. “I’m sure that Bobby will see to it that you’re found,” he reassured.

“I’d want to see my husband,” she murmured. “My son. Living my life on repeat...that would be really dull, don’t you think?”

“You wouldn’t know,” he pointed out. “You wouldn’t remember death, or anything unpleasant.”

“But it would be a lie,” she said. “Part of what makes the good is the bad. And I do hate the bad. The way they died...” Her voice caught, and Castiel squeezed her arm a little tighter. “But without that, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“I told Dean, once, after Sam had fallen into Hell and ended the Apocalypse, that he could only have peace or freedom, not both.”

“Can’t have both, huh.”

“No. I think they are mutually exclusive states of existence.”

She smiled again, lifting her head from his shoulder. “Well, here’s to freedom, then.”

They were quiet a moment, watching the sun sink closer to the horizon.

“Gabriel,” Jody huffed finally. “The archangel. Is erratic and miserable.”

They caught one another’s eye and laughed, and by the time they were done, Jody was wiping her eyes with shaking fingers and Castiel’s stomach ached.

“Balthazar reports that he’s been very irritable lately,” he finally managed. “Vanishing for days and weeks at a time. No one knows what he’s up to. He certainly hasn’t been _here_.”

“Would we know?” Jody asked, still grinning.

“We would know,” he confirmed, smiling back.

  
  
  


Dean was eighty-two days sober, and he still craved whiskey, a constant drone at the back of his mind that was never quite silent. At times, it blended into other things—missing Sam, worrying about Cas, absorbed into a hunt—but it was always there, needling him. No matter how much water he chugged (and he did _chug_ water, now; he carried a liter bottle everywhere he went and constantly felt as though he was drowning), he _thirsted_ for it, the rich dryness of it, the thing that somehow made him feel more hydrated than any amount of water ever could.

But he didn’t throw himself in the path of temptation; he left the bars to Cas and avoided the liquor aisle in supermarkets. He focused on hunting, picked up the odd job here and there that didn’t require him to come within fifty feet of whiskey, and they scraped by on credit card scams and cheap motel rooms and as many free meals as they could con out of grateful survivors of supernatural fallout.

And the weird thing—the horrible thing—was that he was happy. Happy enough, anyway. Happier than he’d been at Lisa’s; happier than he’d been since before Sam’s swan dive, maybe even since before Hell. Life hadn’t been this straightforward in so long, just moving from case to case and taking their work where they could find it, living in each other’s pockets, and sometimes he looked over from the driver’s seat of the Impala and expected to find fresh-out-of-Stanford-Sam sitting there, making a face at him. 

He was never disappointed, exactly, that it was always Cas looking back at him instead—Cas of the newly-shaggy hair that he wasn’t ready to cut yet; Cas of the perpetual stubble that he couldn’t bear to part with; Cas of the piercing blue eyes and the handprint burned into his forearm and his newfound affinity for Dean’s old jackets and the smile that didn’t make his lips move but made the corners of his eyes crinkle instead. He loved Cas, his angel, his partner, his best friend, the man who was making him sappy in his middle age even if only internally, but sometimes he missed his brother and the days when Sam was riding shotgun and Cas was staring at him in the rearview mirror from the backseat.

Dean was eighty-two days sober, and he still craved whiskey, and he still had his ear to the ground for any sign of Crowley, and he was awkwardly and uncomfortably happy, when there was a rough, stuttered knock on the door of their motel room, then a _thump_ as whoever stood on the other side collapsed against the door.

Cas had been half-asleep, sprawled on top of the blankets on his stomach and still in jeans and a t-shirt, but he jerked awake at the sound with the kind of sudden alertness that only hunters and soldiers and Angels of the Lord ever managed. Dean pushed back from his seat at the table, handgun held loose at his side, and waved Cas to the other side of the door, where he’d have a clear shot at whatever stood beyond it. Given the current gentle scritching sounds against the door, it was more likely that whatever it was would collapse over their threshold the second Dean turned the knob than succeed in attacking them, but years of hunting had taught him it was better not to hope for the best.

He pulled open the door, just a foot, wide enough for Cas to see out, his finger light on the trigger, and he felt the drop in his partner’s stomach with sickening clarity; Cas’s eyes widened just a fraction and he fell back half a step, lowering his weapon. Nothing fell into their motel room, but someone shuffled a step back from the door, and there was a gruff “easy, son” and a firm “it’s okay, kiddo.” Cas’s eyes, blue and shocked, flicked to Dean. His chin jerked up, and Dean yanked the door the rest of the way, finger off the trigger.

These days, Cas reminded Dean of Missouri in what he could see and sense; like the old psychic, he could see through the lie of flesh to the demon beneath, could feel the traces that monsters left behind, had a firm intuition that was rarely wrong when it came to hunting, though Dean wasn’t sure if that was due to his clairvoyance or just the millennia spent as a warrior. And Cas didn’t sense a damn thing off about the thing or things behind the door, even though Dean’s stomach turned and he felt as though he’d been tipped sideways into a nightmare.

Sam’s shadowed, bloodshot eyes were locked on Cas, and he breathed shallowly, short bursts ragged with anxiety. His hair was lank, greasy, his shirt soaked through with patches of sweat, his face twisted in guilt and the kind of raw pain that Dean remembered flaying him alive after getting out of the Pit. He hunched, as though trying and failing to curl in on himself, bringing him down to a height closer to Dean’s than he’d been since he was a teenager.

“I tried to kill you,” he rasped out.

Dean moved instinctively to intercept Sam’s line of sight, taking in, numbly, that both Bobby and Gabriel hovered just behind his brother, Bobby’s features torn with anxiety, Gabriel more battleworn than Dean had ever seen him. Finally, Sam’s hazel eyes tracked to Dean’s face, blinking rapidly. He was shivering wildly, on the verge of a full-blown panic attack, and Dean reached out, still dazed, to wrap firm hands around Sam’s shoulders in an attempt to ground him.

“Hey, Sammy,” he said, trying to be gentle, but his voice came out all wrong, tight and choked. “That wasn’t you, okay?”

“Dean,” Sam registered, finally, and lifted one clenched hand from where it was locked at his side to press his palm too hard into Dean’s chest. Something metal and half-sharp poked into his chest where it was crushed against Sam’s hand, and when Dean reached up to pry Sam’s fingers off, his brother flinched back from the touch. The pendant, warm and gold, dropped; the cord tangled up in Dean’s fingers. He glanced down at the amulet he’d thrown away nearly a year ago, stunned.

“I’m sorry,” Sam muttered, still wrecked and shaking. “I’m so, so sorry, it was all a mistake, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t—”

Dean crushed the amulet in his fist and yanked Sam down into a hug, folding his arms around his brother, eyes shut tight, and Sam’s babbling turned into broken syllables, mutters that burst out of him and then subsided. He swayed on his feet, and he didn’t touch Dean, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Dean said, and held Sam at arm’s length, fingers curled loosely around his shoulders. His eyes darted everywhere, over Dean’s shoulder, around the motel room, flitting in terror between Cas and everything else but not meeting Dean’s gaze again. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded, voice flat.

“Gabriel turned up with him yesterday,” Bobby said gruffly, glancing sideways at the archangel beside him.

“Yesterday,” Dean said, gently tugging Sam further into the motel room. “It took you this long to—you couldn’t _fly_ him—”

“No,” Gabriel snapped, “I couldn’t. It takes a fuckton of energy to extract anything from the Pit, let alone Lucifer’s cage, and that’s not even mentioning the piece I had to get out of Purgatory. I’m about as useful as Castiel right now, though at least I’ll eventually recover.”

“You should have come straight here,” Castiel said, but there was no real venom in his voice, just shock.

“Would’ve, if that knitting pattern on Dean’s ribs didn’t conceal you from angelic sight. You’re too close to Dean, it’s hard to get a fix on you. Lucky for you the old man is relatively stationary.”

“C’mon,” Dean coaxed, glancing behind him at the bed. “Little further.”

Sam had to be cajoled into sitting; it took effort to unlock his knees and perch him at the edge of the bed, and Gabriel hovered within three feet of them the whole time, hand half-raised as though about to forehead-touch it all away.

“What’s wrong with him?” Dean said roughly, eyes locked on Sam. He heard Bobby close the door of the motel room, a soft click that echoed through Sam’s wild mumbles and the otherwise strained silence.

“He’s been in Hell,” Gabriel replied, pity twisting his features before they fell back into detached disinterest. “There’s only so much I can do, no matter how many favors I call in. He’s been down there for five months now, that’s a good fifty years Hell time, and God only knows how much more you can tack on for being locked up with the special criminals.”

“Favors?” Castiel repeated from across the room; he was perched on the table, directly behind Sam and therefore out of his line of sight.

Gabriel grimaced. “Sort of. Guy didn’t really owe me anything. He just likes order. I appealed to his sense of organization.”

“I was going to kill him,” Sam interrupted, breaking from his wild darting glances around the room to stare up at Gabriel, eyes full of terror. “I was going to—Cas, and Dean, I was going to, oh, God, I didn’t care, I didn’t even _care_ —”

Gabriel flinched and closed the gap, dropping a hand to Sam’s shoulder, and he quieted, eyes clearing momentarily. Dean noticed again how haggard Gabriel looked, with shadows under his eyes to match Sam’s, hair sticking out at odd angles; when he pulled his hand back, it shook. He collapsed—gracefully, but it was still a surrender to gravity—into a sitting position on the floor, legs folding beneath him.

Sam blinked down at the archangel. “Sorry,” he said quietly, stiller, somehow.

“S’okay, kiddo,” Gabriel replied, hunching forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands. “We’ll figure it out.”

Dean yanked the cord over his head, letting the amulet fall to his shirt. “How the hell did you keep this on you?” he asked; Sam looked back up at him.

“It was on me when I jumped into the Pit,” Sam replied, a little jerky, but at least his gaze was steady. “I picked it out of the trash when you threw it away. Thought you might want it back. Someday.”

“You’re a sentimental piece of shit, you know that?” Dean muttered, but he was smiling so hard that it felt like his face would split in two.

“Jerk,” Sam mumbled, smiling a little, but then his face fell. “God, that was—that was fucked up, what—what happened.”

“Yeah, what else is new,” Dean replied, crouching down in front of Sam. “But we’re okay. We’re all okay—”

“Speak for yourself,” Gabriel groaned beside him.

“And you’re gonna be fine,” Dean said firmly, ignoring the archangel. “We’ll get off the road a while, get you better—”

“I told you we should have just made them come to South Dakota,” Gabriel said, emerging from his hands to glare at Bobby across the room. Bobby stared back, his features just as hard. “I told you we were just going to end up going right back there—”

“And I told you, if you wanted to go find them and convince them that Sam was alive—”

“I wasn’t going to _leave him with you_ ,” Gabriel snarled. “He’d be dead again by now and what a waste of two fucking months that would have been—”

“Everyone just shut the hell up,” Dean snapped, and Sam smiled, strained. “How long does this last? The lucidity?”

“Not all that long,” Gabriel replied, flopping back onto the carpet. “Thirty minutes tops, steady degradation after fifteen. He’s still lucid, still _in there_ , just, you know, crippled by the guilt and the trauma and the torture and he can’t really get over that, so—”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said mildly, “maybe _you_ would like to spend dozens of years in a box with your asshole brothers and see how _you_ do coming out the other side—”

Dean knew it was wrong and twisted but the laugh reared up inside him anyway, and soon, he was hunched over on the floor, braying with the absurdity of the entire situation, numb with relief at having his brother back soul included, and Cas was chuckling across the room; even Gabriel managed a few tired snorts when Bobby dissolved into snickers, too. Dean managed to roll up onto his knees and, still laughing, hugged his brother hard enough to squeeze the breath out of him, and this time, Sam hugged him back, overlong arms squeezing him weakly, and just like that, Dean was home.

  
  
  


“He’s asleep.”

Cas leaned forward at Bobby’s scuffed-up table, rubbing his eyes. “Couch or panic room?”

“I’m banishing you to the basement.” Gabriel collapsed heavily on the couch. “You two can’t do a damn thing for him. I should be closer.”

Dean eyed the archangel warily, but Gabriel flopped back into the cushions and closed his eyes, and there was no way he could hope to move the asshole at this point.

“Fine,” he conceded. “Come get us if anything happens.”

“You’ll probably hear me screaming in agony,” Gabriel muttered, pressing an arm over his eyes. “Should wake you up.”

Cas rolled his eyes—he’d taken to doing that a lot, lately—and got up from the table, wincing through the ache in his lower back. It echoed to Dean, intensified uncomfortably as they stumbled downstairs, exhausted. The drive had been long, and Gabriel was barely able to keep up with Sam, who was in a perpetual state of decay.

Dean thought he might even be exhausted enough to sleep, which was a first, when it came to Sam being in any kind of danger.

“It’s always something with us, huh,” he said tiredly, yanking his shirt off over his head.

Cas stripped out of his jeans with the same efficient, heavy movements. “You’re a Winchester,” he pointed out, fighting a yawn. “If it’s any consolation, though, there are no other wayward brothers to worry about. Gabriel promised that Death saw Adam safely to Heaven.”

“How the hell did Gabriel get Death to help him?” Dean grumbled, collapsing onto the old rollaway. The mattress groaned beneath him.

“Not our problem,” Cas said immediately, rolling into bed beside Dean, who stretched out his arm automatically, letting Cas curl into his side. “What’s the phrase? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Yeah, I know, and believe me, no love lost on the guy, he once killed me a hundred and three times—”

“Indeed,” Castiel said darkly, and Dean’s skin prickled the way it used to whenever Cas got especially smitey.

“Yeah, well, despite that,” Dean continued. “He looks like he’s in bad shape, and he did get my brother back, so—”

“You would do well to remember that Gabriel only ever does things for partially selfish reasons,” Castiel muttered into Dean’s shoulder. “There was something in it for him. I’m just not sure what it was. Until we find out, though—on accident, probably, because I don’t actually want to know—I suggest we pretend that there is no reason, Dean.”

“You’re really sick of this shit, aren’t you,” Dean mused, tilting a tired smile down at the dark head of hair cradled on his chest.

“I think I’ve had enough Apocalypses for a lifetime, yes,” Castiel said, and this time, he did yawn. “I don’t want to accidentally start another one just because you’re _curious_.”

“Hey,” Dean protested.

“Go to sleep, Dean.”

Dean smiled and closed his eyes, curling his arm a little tighter around Cas. “Bossy,” he murmured, but Cas was already asleep, a soft snore drifting out against Dean’s skin, and Sam might have been falling apart twice an hour and, yes, there was an archangel with a killer headache collapsed on the couch upstairs, but this, to Dean Winchester, felt an awful lot like peace.


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We should let them fight it out. Last time I got punched in the face for my trouble. I’ve still got the black eye, Cas.”

“Get the fuck off me, Gabriel!”

Dean kept his eyes firmly shut, even though Cas shifted a little closer into him, pressing his chest up firm against Dean’s back. Between Sam’s frequent breakdowns and Gabriel’s lingering presence in Sioux Falls, everyone was on edge, and Dean just wanted five more minutes. Five more minutes with Cas’s reassuring warmth pressed up against him under the blankets, the touch of his breath tickling the back of Dean’s neck.

“Don’t get touchy, kiddo, I was just—”

“Stop calling me that!”

“We should intervene,” Cas mumbled against Dean’s skin.

Dean shifted back, pressing closer against Cas’s stretched-out length. “We should let them fight it out. Last time I got punched in the face for my trouble. I’ve still got the black eye, Cas.”

“They’ll murder one another.”

“Doubt it,” Dean grunted. “Sam doesn’t have the firepower and Gabriel’s got a crush.”

Cas’s head tipped up; his chin dug into Dean’s shoulder. The proximity of his stubble to Dean’s ear made goosebumps erupt all over Dean’s body. “You’re making a joke, right?”

“No. It’s like he’s pulling Sam’s braid on the playground, the way he’s always setting him off.” Dean finally peeled back one eyelid to sideye Castiel’s thoughtful expression. “Stop. It’s too early to be thinking about this.”

“It’s nearly ten,” Cas pointed out, amused now.

“Too early. Day off, remember?”

There was a low thrum of arousal emanating through their bond as Cas propped himself up on his elbow. “I remember,” he replied, sliding his free hand lower to stroke softly over Dean’s stomach, nails scratching absently through the trail of hair there.

Dean cracked the other eye open. “That’s underhanded of you, Cas.”

Cas just smirked, his lips catching on Dean’s earlobe and drawing it into his mouth. Dean had already been half-hard—the way lust echoed between them only served to amplify Cas’s mood and pass it along to Dean—but he twitched now, a sudden jerk of pleasure as Cas wrapped a hand around Dean’s cock and tugged, slow, leisurely.

“Is it too early for this?” Cas asked, all innocence, a low rumble of a voice against Dean’s throat. “I promise I won’t think.”

Dean arched back, letting Cas touch him, letting his eyes fall closed again. “You do that,” he groaned, and Cas tucked himself close along the line of Dean’s spine, his erection pressing to the small of Dean’s back. A door slammed down the hall, signaling Sam’s sudden exit from the house, and an exasperated ruffle of wings followed, but Dean only registered those facts distantly, because Cas was softly biting at the crook of his neck and then laving away the hurt with wet laps of his tongue, and that was distracting enough _without_ the hand on his dick.

The rustling of wings sounded again, uncomfortably close, and then Cas’s hand was stilling under the sheets. “This is a bad time, Gabriel,” he said, in a voice too smooth and threatening to have the effect that it did on Dean, but dammit, it did, and he didn’t feel like opening his eyes to find that short motherfucker standing in _their room_ , smirking at _their morning sex_.

“Someone needs to talk to him,” Gabriel countered, and all traces of smirking were gone out of his voice. Dean slitted his eyes open cautiously, just to make sure. No, Gabriel looked just as drawn and shadow-eyed as he had for the last several weeks—not a trace of humor about him. “He’s having one of those days.”

“I’ll handle it,” Dean muttered, getting an elbow under him to prop himself up.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Gabriel replied, and poofed out of existence.

Cas gave a sigh of regret, rolling away toward his side of the bed. Dean flopped back onto the mattress to watch him go, sunlight streaming in through the new window panes to gild Cas’s dark hair and fall on his lean torso. They were grounded at Bobby’s until Sam recovered—he had a hard time traveling the distance from the upstairs guest room to the kitchen, let alone being in a cramped car for hours—so together, they’d built an addition to Bobby’s house, a small spare room on the first floor, with a mattress that actually fit two grown men, unlike the bed in the panic room. There wasn’t much in it besides the bed, just a nightstand and a dresser, but Dean’s back was already unknotting in relief at sleeping on a decent mattress on a regular basis.

“Are you getting up,” Cas huffed, pulling on boxers, “or are you going to keep staring?”

“The second one,” Dean answered, grinning, but he rolled out of bed all the same. Sam wouldn’t have gone far, but it was best to diffuse these situations quickly.

His brother was improving. Slowly, that was true—painfully slowly—but improving. He could sometimes go several hours without Gabriel’s intervention, but the longer he went without the archangel’s healing touch, the more irritated he was when Gabriel eventually tried to lay hands on him. Sam was furious with Gabriel, and they still hadn’t worked out why. If Gabriel knew, he wasn’t telling.

Dean yanked on jeans and pulled a thick henley over his head, and while he wormed his feet into socks and boots, Cas pulled down a lined jacket from their single rack of hanging clothes. December was wearing onward, and the Midwest was freezing quickly. They’d had snow the day before.

“I could come, if you want company,” he said, offering the jacket to Dean.

“S’okay,” Dean said, shrugging into the jacket. “Could get breakfast started, though. He’ll be hungry if I ever get him inside.”

“I’ll make coffee,” Cas agreed, and pressed a quick, soft kiss into Dean’s mouth before padding off for the kitchen, still barefoot, his hair sticking up in the back.

Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets and braced himself for the blast of cold, the back of his mind on Cas, still warm and half-drowsy in the kitchen, his hands carefully measuring out coffee. Snow lay in heaps over Singer Salvage Yard, ice glittering on the windshields of junkers that hadn’t been beaten in. Dean crunched through the yard, following haphazard footprints toward the knot of trees where they’d burned Sam’s body. He could hear his brother’s voice, closer now, a streaming murmur of expletives and irritation, and the sudden _thump_ of something—probably part of the standing pyre—being kicked over.

Anger, Dean could deal with.

They hadn’t talked much, him and Sam, since his little brother turned up at the door of that motel room. Most of the time, it was beyond Sam’s ability to have more than a five-minute conversation, and what was there to say, anyway? _I’m glad you’re here._ That was a given. _It’s not your fault._ Dean had already gone through every version of that sentence, and he didn’t get the feeling he was making an impression. _It’ll get better. It has to_. He didn’t know that, though, and he could see, every time he looked at Sam, that his brother didn’t believe it.

More often, they sat in silence. Dean’s head was never quiet, not with Cas at the back of his mind, flitting around, occupying part of his attention, but he sat with Sam on the hoods of cars and in Bobby’s den and at the kitchen table and they were quiet. In a lot of ways it was just like it had always been—but without the beer, and with nearly a century of Hell trauma between them to make the silence dark. Dean hoped it helped that Sam knew he was there, rarely further than twenty yards away, often closer. He and Cas still took off for hunts, but strictly minor-league stuff, things that could be resolved in a day or two, and only as far away as they could drive in half a day. If they were gone, Gabriel was a constant presence at Sam’s side, whether Sam knew it or not. Dean got the feeling that Gabriel was spending a lot of time invisible these days.

“Hey,” he called out, announcing his presence from a safe distance away. Sam whirled to face him, eyes a little wild, and Dean held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Relax. It’s just me. Gabriel’s got angel business.”

For a moment, Sam just looked angrier, but then he deflated, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Dick,” he muttered, resentful but half-hearted.

“You know I’m with you, Sam, but I think he’s just trying to help. The way it sounds, he went through a lot of trouble to get you back.”

“That’s the problem!” Sam burst out, glaring. “Why? Why did he do it in the first place? And why is he hanging around to clean up his mess?”

Dean shrugged. “Cas asked him to. Maybe he feels bad.” He didn’t share the theory he’d floated to Cas fifteen minutes ago. It sounded ridiculous now, in the bright sunlight reflecting off piles of sparkling snow, with his brother knocking over the pyre that probably still had his own ashes clinging to it.

“Do you know what he had to do to even...” Sam trailed off, took a deep breath, and sat down hard on the box of supplies. “Do you know how he got me out?”

“No one’s been particularly forthcoming. I’m trying out a new thing where I don’t look gift horses in the mouth.” Dean sat down next to him, pressing his shoulder against Sam’s trembling one. The shaking eased, if only a little, and Sam huffed out a weak laugh.

“I remember it. Him finding me in Purgatory. Well, part of me, anyway.” Sam hunched down, looking at his feet. “Looked like he’d been through Hell. He was sooty and bloody and he still _smirked_. ‘Time to get out of the box, Sam,’ he said.” Sam shook his head. “I didn’t even want to go. Purgatory was...clean. Simple. Perfect place for someone without a soul. I could only hurt the monsters, not...not people.” His voice choked. “And I _enjoyed_ it.”

Dean knocked his elbow against Sam’s. “Hey. It wasn’t you.”

“But I remember it like it was. I didn’t even...shut _up_ ,” Sam interrupted himself loudly, shooting a glare over his shoulder. At Dean’s raised eyebrows, Sam muttered, “He’s singing again. It’s been the same Gregorian chant for hours now.”

Dean’s side effects of his Hell tour had never included hallucinating the devil. That was, of course, just Sam’s shit luck. “I could give Gabriel a shout,” he said cautiously.

“No,” Sam said sharply. “I can’t _think_ when he’s hovering around like that, and he still looks so busted, I just...I want him gone for a few hours.”

They lapsed back into silence. Dean wished Sam would picked up the thread of conversation that he’d dropped, but his mind was too chaotic, now, to always remember that he’d left something unsaid, and Dean didn’t want to rush him.

“You and Cas,” Sam said finally.

Dean tensed automatically. “Yeah.”

Sam finally smiled. There were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, but he still looked better than the day he’d staggered up to their motel room. “Saw that coming.”

There was something smug about the look on his face, something sickening and sappy that was just _Sam_. It made his chest constrict, reminded him that his brother was really here, worse for the wear, but _here_. Not the robot version he’d been saddled with for months, not back in the box with Lucifer and Michael, but _here_ and girly as ever.

“Shut up,” Dean muttered, a weak defense, but the only one he had.

Sam shook his head, sobering again. “Man, when you died, I went off the fucking deep end. But you...you just fixed everything. Dried out, went hunting, started a relationship with an _Angel of the Lord_.”

“He’s not,” Dean said automatically. “Not anymore. And I was...” Dean cleared his throat. “I was on my way out. After I shot you I just kept drinking, and then I figured out what it was doing to Cas.”

Sam nodded, understanding. “2014?”

“Two thousand and fucking fourteen,” Dean muttered. “He’s the only reason I didn’t drink myself to death. I would’ve been cold in the ground when you got back if he hadn’t been around. I was still trying to track down Crowley, after I got through withdrawal, but...wasn’t getting anywhere. Could tell it wasn’t doing Cas any favors. Or me.”

“You always know what he’s doing?” Sam asked, eyebrows knitting together in curiosity. “Can you hear him, all the time?”

“Getting better at tuning in and out, but yeah, pretty much. Like right now. Swearing about the eggs.” Dean got to his feet and held out a hand to help Sam up. “How about breakfast?”

Sam let himself be helped, but when he was upright, he folded his arms around Dean, sudden and fierce. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Sam said, his voice tight again.

“No chick-flick moments,” Dean said weakly, but he hugged Sam back anyway. The amulet pressed into his chest beneath his shirt, and Sam’s bulk was warm and real. They’d come out of this one all right, and Dean didn’t know how that had worked out, but he was trying a new thing, and it was better not to overthink good fortune.

“Will you let me call Gabriel after we eat?” Dean asked as they trudged back to the house.

Sam made a miserable face. “It’s hurting him. When he helps me. Every time he pushes it down, he sees Lucifer. That’s his _brother_ , Dean. Every time he tries to help me he has to see, firsthand, everything that happens in the Pit.”

“We don’t have a lot of options,” Dean pointed out. “We push you too close to breaking point, you break. You’re getting better. Eventually you won’t need him. Don’t see why you’re worried, anyway. Guy’s a dick. You were all pissed at him ten minutes ago.”

“I’m pissed because he did this and I still don’t know why,” Sam grumbled. “Neither do you. He made a deal with _Death_ , Dean.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “High rollin’. To what?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said, frustrated. “He won’t tell me.”

“Mysterious,” Dean drawled, and Sam gave him a shove. “Maybe cooperation is a better method of getting any info out of him, genius.”

“You try cooperating with Gabriel,” Sam muttered. “Your head will explode.”

“Managed all right during the Apocalypse. The latest one, anyway.”

They broke out in tired chuckles as they stamped off their boots and trudged into the house. The scent of coffee hit Dean, a warm wall of comfort. Bobby and Cas were in the kitchen, Bobby’s hands already wrapped around a mug, Cas settled at the counter with his cup of tea. He smiled at Dean, the barest twitch up at the corners of his mouth, the smile that made his crow’s feet crinkle deep.

Dean’s family was battered, but they were here, alive, and in the end, that was all he ever really needed: Bobby barking grumpily at Cas to hurry up with the food, Sam cautiously stretching out at the table with his too-long legs, and Cas, Cas’s fingers brushing his wrist as he passed Dean a mug of coffee, Cas’s smile tucked away in the corner of his mouth, Cas’s reassuring warmth at the back of his mind, a steady, permanent presence he’d have with him until the lights went out.

And maybe even after, if Gabriel was in a good mood the day they died.

  
  


 

In the dark, like a prayer, Dean panted his name.

He was always _Cas_ until their clothes were off, and then, suddenly, Dean found the other syllables. “Castiel,” he breathed into the hollow of Castiel’s neck, thumbs smoothing out over Castiel’s hipbones; “Castiel,” he groaned into Castiel’s mouth, fingers knotting in Castiel’s hair; “Castiel,” he exhaled, pupils blown out in lust as Castiel opened him up, fingers slicking in and out of tight heat.

In the dark, Castiel could still see Dean, still feel him, maybe more clearly than at any other time, because Dean was vulnerable here, open: features contorted in pleasure, breathy wrecked sounds tearing from his throat, muscles writhing, fingers clenching into the sheets. He came unwound when Castiel was buried to the hilt in him, Castiel’s name falling from his lips in broken syllables. Beneath his fingers, the scar melded into Dean’s shoulder came alive, thrummed with the remnant of Grace that had burned mostly away; Dean was a live wire under his touch, a mess of wordless pleasure. Wordless, except for the chant of Castiel’s name, his thoughts a jumbled mess except for those exalted syllables.

Dean’s heels dug into the mattress, his legs open around Castiel’s hips, braced for the slow drag and thrust of Castiel’s body against his. Every day, every hunt, all the smallest movements weighted down on Castiel’s too-human body now; gravity was stifling when he was without the wings that Dean had given him. But here, bracing himself against the mattress, against _Dean_ , watching the hunter come undone beneath him, gravity didn’t touch him.

“Stop,” Dean rasped out, scrabbling for somewhere to hold onto Castiel, wrenching his hands free of the sheets to pull Castiel by the back of the neck down to him. The kiss was drugged, heavy, and Castiel melted down into it, pressing deeper into Dean, harder. “More,” Dean panted into his mouth, fingers still tight in Castiel’s hair, little pinpricks of pain weaving through the pleasure. “Please—Cas— _Castiel_ —”

Dean said his name with more reverence than he thought the Righteous Man possessed, and he lost himself in the sound of it, pressed into his lips with increasing urgency, sweeping through their bond like a tide that would drown him. Dean’s cock twitched against him, trapped between their bodies, and before Castiel could so much as touch him, Dean was coming, locked up around him.

Castiel held on, rocking him through it, the wave of bliss nearly blinding, and Dean breathed harshly into his shoulder, all ability for voluntary sound gone. He wasn’t far behind, the tight clench of Dean’s body too good to resist for long; when he came it was with Dean’s name on his lips, exhaled into the hunter’s neck, while Dean’s fingernails lazily scraped through his hair, one hand light on his hip to guide him deeper.

They were a boneless, sated mess in the aftermath, melted haphazardly into one another. Castiel felt the sharp jut of Dean’s hip pressing into his stomach, Dean’s knee poking up into his leg, but gravity had hold of him again, and he was unresisting, letting Dean stroke through his sweaty hair as their breathing returned to normal.

Eventually, though, Castiel cracked his eyes back open—he didn’t know when he’d closed them—and tipped his chin up to look at Dean, who was idly smiling at the ceiling. “What?” he asked drowsily.

“Nothin’,” Dean replied innocently. “Wanna go grab a towel?”

“Not really,” Castiel murmured, but peeled himself upward, anyway. They both winced at the sticky sensation of coming apart, and Castiel pulled on sweatpants to journey down the hallway to the bathroom, hoping he wouldn’t run into anyone. He was coated in a combination of sweat and come and a collection of bruising bites around his neck and shoulders, and it would be only too obvious what he’d been doing five minutes before; he could only imagine Gabriel’s endless innuendo, which would undoubtedly grind back into action at the sight.

The house was quiet, though. Castiel knew without having to sense it that Sam was restlessly asleep upstairs, and Gabriel was too busy watching over his new ward to pay them any shred of attention. He’d never known Gabriel to be so single-minded; he wondered for perhaps the hundredth time what Gabriel had promised Death in exchange for Sam’s soul, what an archangel could possibly have to offer a being as cold and timeless as the rider of the pale horse.

He pulled down a washcloth, wetted it, and scrubbed the tacky substances from his chest and thighs, leaving faintly pink skin in its wake. He’d learned, since becoming human, that the combination of sweat and lube was an uncomfortable sensation on the skin if it was allowed to dry. Dean didn’t seem to notice or mind nearly as much; by the time Castiel had wrung out the washcloth a second time and returned to their room, Dean was half-asleep, sprawled over more than half the bed. He startled awake when Castiel gently ran the damp cloth over his skin.

“I can do that,” Dean grumbled, but didn’t make more than a halfhearted effort to grab the washcloth from Castiel. “Not a creature stirring?”

“All’s quiet,” Castiel confirmed. “Sam must still be asleep.”

There was a sudden, loud _thump_ from upstairs, accompanied by a startled yelp. The low roll of hushed, angry voices started a few seconds later.

“Scratch that,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “I think there’s a hunt in Wyoming. Wanna get out of here tomorrow?”

Castiel chuckled, and Dean pulled him down to the bed, discarding the washcloth to the floor. Castiel flicked through his recent memories of hunting with Dean over the last few months as the strain between them thawed: the first time he’d seen Dean smile absently again while driving the Impala; the many monsters he taunted, with more and more relish, shotgun in hand; the nights that followed, long and sultry and navigating around the wounds they’d taken during the day. Motel rooms were uncomfortable and anonymous, but Castiel loved being on the road with Dean, moving from town to town, hunt to hunt.

“You’re not worried about Sam?” he asked, because Dean had been reluctant at best to stray out of the radius of half a day’s drive since November.

“I’m always worried about Sam,” Dean grumbled, pulling Castiel closer to him. Cradled in the soft spot between Dean’s chest and shoulder, Castiel closed his eyes and wrapped an arm out across Dean, anchoring himself to the hunter. “But he’s got a babysitter now, and maybe if we get out of the way for a few days and force him to confront his issues, things’ll be better when we get back.”

“Okay,” Castiel said agreeably, drowsy already. He felt Dean being tugged down, too, his awareness flickering as the warmth of the bed set in. “What do you think it is?”

Dean turned his face into Castiel’s hair. “Sudden deaths. Bloody crime scenes. Could be a serial killer, or it could be a ghoul. Or a shapeshifter. Run of the mill stuff.”

“Totally normal,” Castiel mocked gently, hooking a leg over Dean’s.

“Compared to angels and demons and the Apocalypse, yeah,” Dean murmured, his words starting to slur. “Never thought I’d get back to this.”

The truth went unsaid— _never thought I’d be_ happy _to get back to this_ —but Castiel felt it as Dean melted away into sleep, the content warmth that bled into his tired muscles. There was the undercurrent of worry, of course—the nettling fear that it would somehow all be ripped away from him too soon—but Dean, for the moment, was doing his best not to focus on that, to focus instead on Sam, returned to him, a little broken, maybe, but weren’t they all; on Bobby, safe from Crowley’s deal, soul and legs intact; on the war they’d won in Heaven, and the haphazard ally they had in Gabriel.

And there was Castiel, too, suffused through it all. His place in Dean’s life still confused and bemused him; the sheer depth of feeling Dean had for him and all the descriptions that came along with it were things that Castiel had thought were impossible to earn. _Best friend_ and _partner_ and _family_ and something that defied words, really, in any language that Castiel knew. It was the warmth that glowed in Dean’s chest when Castiel smiled at him, however small; it was the protective flare that bubbled up whenever Castiel was in harm’s way; it was the drifting wave of bliss whenever they were wrapped around one another, calling each other’s names.

Love seemed too simple a word, stiff and unyielding, for the thing they shared, because Castiel had loved Dean from the moment he touched the hunter’s soul in Hell, loved him when his wings burned and Dean made them new, loved him when his orders were to do everything _but_ love him. He had loved him when recognition dawned in those green eyes in the prophet’s house—the realization that Castiel was going to _die_ for him—and loved him for the relief in those eyes every time Castiel staggered back to him, crippled or wounded or towing mistakes in his wake, and Dean took him in, anyway, sheltered him under wings of understanding and friendship.

Castiel still had nightmares—about Hell, about war, about Sam holding a gun to his temple and the look on Dean’s face that would haunt him until the end—but sometimes, he dreamed of the lake where he’d gone to warn Dean of the angels’ plan. His hunter was beside him, jeans rolled up to the knees and feet drifting in the cool water below the dock, their shoulders pressed companionably together. The lines on Dean’s face were shallower, the scars fewer, Dean on the day Castiel had first met him in a barn in Illinois, where everything seemed to finally _begin_ for Castiel, after so long being a passive participant in an unremarkable existence. The sun stayed forever at the horizon, brightening the sky to orange and pink and gold with blue wisping upwards, as if time had paused and they had forever.

Sometimes, Castiel slept well, and he woke up to sun on his face and Dean’s soft snores and forgot that he had ever been an Angel of the Lord at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addendum, 3/18/2014:
> 
>  
> 
> I'm sorry to say that, although I had originally planned a sequel to this fic, I no longer plan on writing it. I've left the fandom and have no real desire to write anything SPN-related in the future. I won't say _never_ , I suppose, just that I very much doubt I'll ever return to this 'verse.
> 
>  
> 
> Original End Notes:
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, god, I'm going to get all emotional.
> 
> First of all, special thanks go out to all of you who read, bookmarked, and commented on this fic while it was being written. It was your support and interest that continually drove me forward, even when suffering from crippling self-doubt on the writing front.
> 
> An extra special thank you to the boyfriend, who overcame his indifference toward male/male pairings and got super involved with the creation of this story. He often helped me figure out what was missing in certain scenes that I couldn't put my finger on, and suggested dozens of plot points, not all of which made it to final draft form, and many of which were frankly insane, but some certainly stuck.
> 
> It has been my genuine pleasure to write (and finish!) this thing over the last nine months. I started writing in September, started posting in December, and still can't really believe that I'm done less than six months from when I started releasing chapters to the internet.
> 
> I have been pretty much sold on writing a sequel--shorter and slightly less plotty than this piece, with a focus on Sam/Gabriel. There's just too much potential there for it to go to waste. I don't know yet when I'll start writing or posting that plot bunny, but I've already got a laundry list of ideas for scenes and events, and I'm sure it'll happen soon.


End file.
